


All of My Tomorrows

by awed_frog



Series: (don't look back) [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (apparently), (but arting is hard), About Time, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Season/Series 13, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, But Everyone Is Loved, Cas is an artist, Case Fic, Castiel in Alternate Vessels, De-Aged Dean Winchester, Dean Has a Fear of Heights, Dean Teaches Cas How to Swim, Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester Use Their Words, Dubcon Airbnbing, Enochian magic, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, First Kiss, Fucking Try to Stop Me, Grief/Mourning, Heartache, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Minor Max/Aaron, Mountains, Mutual Pining, Never Been Kissed AU, POV Castiel, POV Dean Winchester, Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 12, Predictably Freaks Out, Sam Has a Baby, Selectively Mute Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Teacher Castiel, Winchesters Childhood, beach wedding, because why not, can you believe that, some hard stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-06-09 12:26:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15267477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: It's the end of all monsters, and the beginning of a new world. While Sam tries to adjust and find a way to live with a woman who doesn't seem to like him very much, Dean has to come to terms with the fact Cas left him - again.Luckily, a gruesome murder in an isolated school gives them both something else to think about - until it doesn't.





	1. Road Trip with Papa

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! Welcome! I'm sooo excited to share this story with you - I've been thinking about it on and off for _months_ , and I can't believe I actually get to write it down. *excited squeal*
> 
> Before we start though, a few warnings:
> 
> 1) This fic is part three of a series. I _strongly_ suggest you start from [the beginning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10988874/chapters/24473493), or things won't make much sense.
> 
> 2) Also, it's rated M for a reason. I never write graphic scenes of violence, but I try to keep my stories canon compliant, which means bad memories and bad things. Please stay safe.
> 
> 3) Speaking of, part of what I want to do here is explore Dean's past, and that's why the case Dean finds himself investigating will involve some difficult themes (namely: self-harm, suicide, grooming, teacher/student relationship). They won't be central to the narrative, but they will be there. If you have any questions or worries about it, you can come chat to me on [tumblr](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/) (on or off anon).
> 
> 4) None of that violence is between Dean and Cas.
> 
> 5) This is a TFW story - most of the chapters will be from Dean's or Cas' POV, and I will do my best to explore what Sam is up to, but all the other characters will only appear in the background.

_From the Kentucky coal mines to the California sun_  
_Yeah, Bobby shared the secrets of my soul_  
_Through all kinds of weather, through everything we done_  
_Yeah, Bobby baby kept me from the cold_  
_One day up near Salinas, Lord, I let him slip away_  
_He's lookin' for that home, and I hope he finds it_  
_But I'd trade all of my tomorrows for one single yesterday_  
_To be holdin' Bobby's body next to mine._

 

The church is not a church anymore, but it still has a good roof and someone’s scavenged themselves a decent fireplace behind the altar. It’s crude work, and it will probably crumble come winter, but after all, it is not winter yet. 

As the man warily makes his way inside the building, he’s welcomed by the soft noise of a dozen faded fast food wrappers whispering across the stone floor - tasteless things, useless and unhappy in the afternoon wind. He lets them be, focuses his attention on the wall closest to him, on how it’s been turned into the most depressing office space he’s ever seen in his life - a series of newspaper cuttings, Bible pages and grainy photos, all taped to the rotting wood and connected to one another with pieces of colored string.

The man stops briefly in front of the mismatched display, passes his fingers on the headlines detailing disappearances, freaky accidents and gruesome murders.

“Cold,” he says, disapprovingly. “Cold, colder…oh. Getting warmer here. Well - not actually a fire, but we’ve done enough burning to last us a lifetime, haven’t we, darling?”

With a soft sound of disapproval, he rips the offending magazine page off the wall, quickly reads it through one more time ( _Two pet llamas mauled by mystery beast in Hanover, Pennsylvania, local vet ‘baffled’_ , the headline screams, in loud, lurid colours), folds it and pockets it.

“Now, where are you then?” he mumbles, almost to himself. The long-forgotten shards of what could have been a beer bottle crack under his feet. “We can’t have a hunt without the hunter, that’s what I always -”

_Ah._

The man hesitates for only a second, his gaze on the legs emerging from behind an overturned pew. Solid work boots, jeans that have seen better days. 

And no sign of life.

“Stay,” the man snaps, seemingly to no one; the word resonates in the miserable, dirty, deconsecrated building around him.

(It sounds like a curse, but isn’t there a fine line between cursing and praying?)

He considers the gun sitting discreetly in his shoulder holster, immediately discards the idea. 

It’s not a gun he needs right now.

In fact, it’s a ridiculous notion he’d have one at all, but, as poets and philosophers everywhere are fond of saying, paranoia is a skill: the secret to longevity.

“You better not be dead,” he warns, between gritted teeth; he gets no answer.

With a last, almost longing look to the big church doors behind him, the man walks towards the motionless figure on the ground, makes a sound of exasperation when he sees the residues of a dozen burnt-out candles, a selection of ritual knives and an empty bottle of pills.

“Sloppy,” he says, to the man on the floor. “ _Idiotic_. Come on, mate. Have some pride.”

Taking great care to avoid a spot of dry vomit, he finally kneels by the man’s face, puts two fingers against his neck -

 _Don’t you dare, you_ worthless _\- you utterly_ useless -

\- and _yes_ \- there’s a heartbeat.

Slower than he’d like, and slightly erratic, but it’s there.

 _Bloody_ Winchesters. 

He breathes out, his hand now fully resting on the man’s neck in something that’s not quite a caress. He would love to let himself enjoy this; to linger here, to pass his fingers through the man’s hair, to sit down on this disgusting floor and wait for him to wake up; but that’s not why he came here.

(That’s not what Dean would want.)

The man slides his thumb lightly, affectionately, on Dean’s grimy skin; and next he sighs, moves his hand lower - under Dean’s chest, against the pockets of his trousers. Luckily, the cell phone is right there; but, of course, it’s dead. It will take a full fifteen minutes before the call can be placed, and that’s just irritating, really - Dean Winchester is not very entertaining when he’s awake, and he’s even less fun when he’s passed out.

Still, what needs must. The man connects his pocket charger to the dead phone - almost breaks his neck tripping on an empty bottle as he stands up, catches himself on the dark pew behind him, and takes a moment to gather his thoughts and bearings.

(He’s short of breath, now, and his heart’s beating fast. 

A natural reaction to an unexpected moment of physical - _physical_ \- imbalance. Nothing more.)

“You fall in love with a storm,” he says, after a few minutes (he looks down at the man at his feet, wishes, again, he could stay longer), “and this what you get: bloody _rain_. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.”

Dean doesn’t answer. His right hand twitches, and he coughs out a couple of rasping breaths without waking up.

Now the wind has calmed down, the sound is unnaturally loud, almost overpowering. 

“Nice try. I still don’t care,” the man says, gripping the phone too tightly, checking for life.

The screen flickers.

With a last, furious look at Dean, the man walks out of the church, sidestepping the trash that’s piled up by the entrance. He breathes in the fresh air, moves back towards his own car, which is parked next to a banged-up 1967 Chevy Impala.

He goes through the pockets of his jacket as he punches the number in, quick and angry and increasingly exasperated with the whole situation.

 _Go and do thou bloody likewise_ , he thinks to himself viciously, his bad mood seeping into the landscape, turning the unremarkable open field around him into something he can’t wait to rid himself of - something without double-glazed windows or comfortable furniture or good Craig or even _books_ , something that’s too close to reminding him of - of -

“Hello? _Dean_?” 

The man’s found what he was looking for. He holds it up between his fingers without speaking, thinks it’s very likely nobody will notice it. Not for the next two days, and not with Dean being in the state he is, anyway.

“Dean, please _say_ something. Dean, I -”

The man drops both the phone and the miniature tracking chip through the broken passenger window of the Impala, walks away. 

“Here, Juliet,” he calls, opening the trunk door of his pure white Mercedes; and the car visibly shakes as if someone, or something, had jumped in. “Time to go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was short - it's only a prologue! Hope to see you next week for something a bit meatier.
> 
> “Paranoia is a skill: the secret to longevity.” - Mozzie from _White Collar_  
>  "Then said Jesus unto him, Go, and do thou likewise." - From the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10: 37)


	2. Black Sheep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for suicidal mood, drugs and alcohol abuse, general Winchester angst and very bad porn.

It’s the sound of a slamming car door that finally wakes him up; that and the sunlight in his eyes, which is suddenly too bright, way too warm through the windshield. He tries turning on his side, lazily raising one arm to cover his face, and something tears at his skin, makes him curse and blink at the world.

The door on his side opens, and someone reaches into the car, steadies him.

“Careful with that,” Sam says, and Dean is so surprised to hear his brother’s voice he’s sure, for a split second, this is just another dream.

God knows he’s had enough of them lately, and it’s getting damn hard to tell what reality even is.

His mind a thing of vague thoughts and vague feelings, he looks up at Sam’s pale face, and next at wherever this is - not the old church he’s been living in for the past three weeks, but a beautiful, postcard-like landscape, white with snow. 

Snow.

Dean blinks.

Where the _hell_ is he?

“Sam?” he tries, and his voice comes out all weird; it’s been a while since he’s talked to anyone at all.

“Yeah. I’m here.” Sam peers at him through the open door, his nose already going pink from the cold.

“Hey. Long time, no see.”

Sam clenches his jaw, looks away for a second.

“Think you can stand up?” he asks, after a moment of silence, and Dean rolls his eyes at him.

“I’m not _sick_ , Sammy.” He licks his lips, chasing the next sentence. “Just had one too many, you didn’t have to -”

“I’ll help you with the IV bag,” Sam cuts in, and now he’s just this side of furious. “Come on.”

Now Sam’s mentioning it, Dean finally notices there’s a lot of weird fuckery going on. For starters, these clothes he’s wearing? _Definitely_ not his. The pants are soft cotton and way too big. The hoodie is unicorn ass _pink_ , for Chrissake. And yeah - someone’s rolled up his right sleeve, stuck a needle in his arm. Dean follows the tube with his eyes, finds it ends in a plastic bag crudely tied to the Impala’s roof handle. There’s numbers on it, ingredients and percentages; and, right in the middle: _ANIMAL USE ONLY. KEEP OUT OF REACH OF CHILDREN_.

Slowly, Dean reads the sentence over.

The bag is almost empty.

He doesn’t remember how it even got there.

“Uhm,” he tries, and that’s when Sam gets one of his freakishly large hands inside the car and starts undoing the knots around the handle, the plastic bag swishing around his impatient fiddling.

“I’ll do it,” he says curtly. “Come on. Get out.”

There’s some part of Dean’s brain that’s not awake yet. He’s having trouble piecing everything together - the hunting, the drinking, those bits of conversation floating around in his nightmares (“He wanted you to have this.”). Someone’s hand in his hair; the empty, familiar shell of the church and the newspaper cuttings he’d pinned to the walls.

Seriously, what the _hell_?

Dean swings his legs outside the car, breathes in the fresh, cold air. 

“Whatever,” he says, closing his eyes, trying to clear his thoughts. So Sam found him. That’s not a surprise. Kid’s persistent, gotta give him that. “You got all my stuff?”

Sam stands up, disappearing from his field of vision. 

“I got your weapons,” he says, irritably. “And the books. I burned the rest.”

“ _What?_ ”

“You’re welcome.”

“You’re wel - bitch, that took me three _weeks_!”

“Dean, I -”

Dean plants his boots more firmly on the ground, and the snow creaks under his feet as he tries to get up. He does it too, and if he leans against the car for one second, it’s just to take in the fairy tale landscape around him: wave after wave of blue white hills disappearing against the wide horizon.

“Let’s get you some food,” Sam finally says, and it’s clear that’s not what he’d meant to say at all.

He pushes the IV bag in Dean’s hand, moves away to get Dean’s stuff out of the trunk. 

Dean watches him. Something about Sam is rubbing him the wrong way. He’s _pissed_ Sam found him, and he’s _pissed_ Sam found him drunk and high, and he’s _beyond_ pissed Sam thought it was a good idea to destroy two months’ worth of hard work, but it’s not just that. 

No, Sam looks like he _belongs_ here - he’s dressed for the climate, and he’s all nice and pink-cheeked and clean-shaven, like he’s some regular guy who lives in this fucking snow globe and goes to some office every morning and talks about the game around a water cooler. There’s something about him of those other Sams Dean met in parallel worlds - of the IT nerd who helped him hunt ghosts in Zachariah’s vision, of the young lawyer who was married to Jess inside the djinn’s dream. And some part of Dean understands this is not - Sam is _healthy_ , that’s all. Well rested. Well fed. The fact Dean almost resents him for that - _Jesus_ , just when he thought he couldn’t feel worse about himself -

“Sammy,” Dean starts, but Sam starts walking down the small footpath without looking back, and as Dean watches him, his hand clenching around the IV bag, something that could be nausea or rage deep inside his stomach, he finally notices the house - a friendly, cosy cottage that’s probably been pushed right out of Santa’s butthole.

_Son of a -_

There’s _baubles_ , for Chrissake, and garlands, and something that looks like a gigantic snowflake right over the front door.

(Is it _Christmas_ already? Dean isn’t sure of the date. He remembers sharing a finger-lickin’ Thanksgiving special with a group of bikers, and that must have been - couple of weeks ago? Three? 

Whatever.)

With a last look at the valley below, he unpeels himself from the car and follows Sam to the house, one hand still closed around the plastic bag, the other clutching at his pants, ‘cause he’s not about to let them slide off his legs and get butt naked here - not when Eileen’s probably waiting inside that house (and she’s bound to fit right in as well, right? judging from this fucking place, sure as hell she’s gonna be a fucking _Stepford_ person - she’s gonna stand by some oven in bright red lipstick, ready to welcome them with freshly baked cookies, ‘cause that’s how it goes and _fuck_ , he should stop feeling so damn _bitter_ about it already) - Dean half trips, hitches his damn pants back up - he may be a drunk and an out-and-out failure, but he’s still got some dignity left, and _goddammit_.

Sam unlocks the front door, adjusts the weight of Dean’s battered duffel over his shoulder and turns back to wait for him, watching him with a carefully neutral expression as Dean slowly makes his way along the path.

“I’ve got bacon and eggs,” he says, as Dean stops on the first step of the porch, leans against the railing and tries not to throw up. “And frozen pizza. I think.”

“What, isn’t your _wife_ cooking?” Dean coughs out, annoyed. His legs still aren’t working properly, and the short walk’s gotten him winded and sweaty even in this cold-ass afternoon. “Nice chicken roast? Homemade lasagna?”

Sam glares at him.

“Eileen’s working late today,” he says, and he seems about to add something else before turning and walking inside the house.

Dean shakes his head and follows.

The front door opens directly on the living room - a big, sunny space of vintage furniture and pretty watercolors. Dean stares at it for a second before collapsing on an plush armchair; the IV tube tears at his skin again, and Dean hisses in annoyance, yanks it out.

“ _What_ is this shit, anyway?” He calls towards the kitchen. “And where the _hell_ are my clothes? Don’t get it wrong, I’m flattered, but -”

“You don’t remember?” Sam asks flatly, appearing and disappearing by the door. “ _Jesus_ , Dean.”

“What?” Dean tosses the plastic bag on the floor, watches it drip on the old carpet.

“Dave patched you up. Dave Peterson? We were there for a day and a half. You were fucking _awake_ , Dean. You talked to us the whole time.”

Okay, if Sam’s going to make shit up -

“Who the _hell_ is Dave Peterson?”

A microwave beeps.

“That vet we met three years ago? Helped us out with a kappa nest?”

A vague memory swims to the surface and sinks again: a white room, metal shelves, a pony poster hanging on the back of a closed door.

“Tattoos? Kinda ginger?”

Sam says nothing. He just walks out, drops a plate on Dean’s lap, and goes to check the window.

Dean glances down at the food - some kind of leftover pasta, and so much for eggs and bacon - and turns his face away. The rich smell is making his stomach turn. 

“Okay, whatever - I remember him.” He actually does. He remembers those fucking kappas, how he’d almost lost an ear and Dave had sewed back on.

(What he _doesn’t_ remember? The guy cutting his clothes off and patching him up, when?, this morning, or yesterday, or whenever the fuck it was, but so _what_ , huh? So fucking _what_? He’s got enough stupid memories to last him two lifetimes, and he didn’t need treatment in the first place, okay? So he got drunk. And high. Big fucking _deal_. People do that, and people are _fine_. Dean had it under control before Sam felt the need to butt in.)

“How did you even find me?” he asks, just as Sam says, “You were lucky he was close by. I know we always try to avoid hospitals, but -”

“ _Hospitals_? Dude, I was _fine_.”

Sam turns and faces him, and that’s when it happens, as it always does, because Dean is well-trained and knows how to respond in a fight: his mind clears and his body tenses up in reaction to Sam’s stance, to Sam’s anger; some voice inside Dean’s mind starts telling him about the room, and how to get out, and what could be used as a weapon. And fuck, it’s not like Dean _wants_ to think like that, and he would never - never - put his hands on his brother again - it’s just _normal_ , okay? ‘S just nature and practice and self-fucking-preservation. 

“You were _not_ fine,” Sam growls, spitting the words out in disgust. “You almost _died_ , Dean.”

“What? Come off it.”

(The last thing he actually remembers? The harsh syllables of that coptic ritual, and the strong smell of incense. How fucking _cold_ that church was. How maybe he’d taken one pill too many, ‘cause his heart had been beating like crazy and his blood, that was all in technicolor, vibrant red and buzzing green and fast fast fast.)

“And for _what_? A _hunt_?”

“Sam -”

“It’s _over_ , Dean. The monsters are _gone_.” Dean stands up, the plate falling to the floor, as Sam shouts the last word at him, his fists clenched. “It’s _over_ , and you almost died - for _nothing_.”

“It _wasn’t_ ,” he hisses, stepping over the overturned plate, “It’s not - I had a _lead_.”

“A lead on _what_? That bullshit on your board? A lead on that, Dean?”

“I -”

“Or a lead on _Cas_? Is that what this is? Are you trying to find Cas? ‘Cause Cas left, and that sucks, but you need to -”

(And there it is: the now familiar sense of the walls closing in, his vision flickering, his lungs shutting down inside his chest. The memory of Cas - of Cas’ blue eyes lighting up with joy, of Cas looking at him in that weird, soft way he had, of Cas putting a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. Of Cas closing his eyes in the afternoon sun and looking, for once, completely at peace.

And also: of Cas saying, _Thank you - for everything_.) 

“I _know_ that. I know he left,” Dean growls, much too loud. “Shut up, okay?”

But Sam is not listening, Sam is not -

“Shut up? _Fuck_ you - you think I’m gonna stand here and watch you _kill_ yourself because Cas -”

(How Cas would hug him after a close shave, almost tight enough to leave bruises, and how he’d let go - suddenly, unexpectedly, very much unlike a person would. How he would cup Dean’s face, something urgent and worried and terrified around his eyes and mouth, and Dean had never -)

“Sammy, I’m _warning_ you -”

“- because Cas left. Dean, you _must_ -”

“Stop telling me what to _do_ ,” Dean roars, pushing back against that solid wall of rage and grief threatening to knock him right down. “Stop talking to me like I’m some stupid _kid_! I changed your fucking _diapers_ , Sam. You don’t _get_ to -”

“I don’t get to keep you the fuck _alive_? Fucking _watch_ me.”

Sam’s just itching to punch him in the face, Dean knows that, knows his brother’s tells and what that thing in his eyes means. Something bright and vaguely blurred flashes in his brain - a hot summer afternoon, and how he’d been sitting on Sam’s back, bending Sam’s right arm so his brother couldn’t move an inch - he’d looked up at Dad, then, waiting for directions, ‘cause Sam was still wriggling and trash talking and trying to break free - he wasn’t supposed to, he was trapped - one more inch and there was the serious risk Dean would break his arm by accident - but Dad hadn’t noticed. He’d been too far, his face lost in the shadow of a phone booth, and Dean - fuck, Sam was fifteen and almost as tall as he was and they’d been fighting all week over some chick and _Sammy, come on_ , but Sam had kept cursing and trying to get him off; and Dean can still hear, clear as a bell, the harsh, sudden noise of his brother’s shoulder dislocating, and that’s why he takes a step to the side right now, away from Sam; that’s why he hitches his stupid pants up and backs off.

(He can’t do this anymore.

He’s _done_.)

He doesn’t look at his brother, not even once; he just walks to the kitchen, moves things around in the fridge until he finds some _El Sol_ , takes two cans out and shuffles back to the sitting room, leaving one on the classy glass table before collapsing in the armchair again.

Sam stares at him, still breathing hard; he says nothing.

“Sam, I’m not - looking for him,” Dean finally says, after a few minutes of very tense silence. He takes a big swig to wash the words out of his mouth. “I mean, what’s the point? He’d be a baby or some shit, you know?”

And just like that, Sam lets go. All the fight leaves him, and he pushes his hair back before picking up the second can and cracking it open.

“Yeah,” he says, dropping on the couch in front of Dean. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean - I’m sorry.”

 _He wanted you to have this_ , the woman says inside his head, and Dean closes both hands around the cold metal, clenches his jaw.

“‘S not your fault,” he offers, as Sam drinks. “And I wasn’t - I was looking for a case, like I told you. Sure, they said it’s over, but - who knows, right?”

“Dean -”

There’s nothing after that.

Thing is, Sam’s _okay_ with this. With the new world they’re living in, with not being a hunter anymore. Hell, why wouldn’t he be? Look at Eileen. Look at this fucking _house_. Kid’s two months away from a winter wonderland wedding and an entire pack of Labradors, and Dean - what the _fuck_ is Dean supposed to do? Did Sam really think Dean was going to stick around and ruin this whole fucking thing for him? ‘Cause Sam _deserves_ all this - his girl back from the fucking dead, a fridge full of Tupperwares, even the fucking Christmas decorations - Sam’s _earned_ it, and Dean - all he wants is to be left alone.

So the last thing he needs right now is stay here and listen to how he’s fucked up again, how Sam had to drive eighteen hours and rescue him.

(Hell - it doesn’t even matter if he was dying. It would have been better if Sam had never found him at all.)

“Whatever,” Dean says, draining his beer. “I need a shower.”

“Upstair,” Sam answers, without moving, and Dean wishes there was a way to make things right with his brother - to patch it up right now, to explain the past few months, and why he can’t stay here.

But words - that was never what he was good at. The smart one, the one who’s got a thing for poems and languages and had teachers raving over his essays - that was always Sammy.

( _Your son, Mr Winchester - he may simply be slow_.)

And that’s not unfair. 

‘S just life. 

Grunting a kind of thanks, Dean stands up, still clutching his sweatpants, and pauses to get his duffel before making his way upstairs.

Fuck, he wants to go back to sleep so _badly_. Maybe he can crash here for a day or so? That’d be okay, right? Eileen likes him.

Or, the other one did. This one - Dean hasn’t stuck around long enough to find out.

 _Fuck_.

The first room he pokes his head into is clearly Sam and Eileen’s: there’s a woman’s sweater draped on the back of a cosy armchair, and the bed is sloppily made. Dean clenches his jaw, moves along the corridor, opens the second door.

It’s another bedroom, and the only reason Dean steps inside is because something immediately jumps out at him - because this is how _Sam_ does things, he thinks, dropping the bag by the open door and looking at Sam’s clothes carelessly thrown down on the bedspread; at the pile of books on the bedside table, at the box of sleeping pills half lost under a pillow, at the open laptop blinking at him from the desk. 

So they - they got separate rooms? _Really?_

(Trouble in Paradise fucking already?)

There’s a _None of your business_ crawling up his windpipe, crowding his brain with noise and color, but Dean pays it no mind. Seriously - why the _hell_ aren’t those two idiots sharing a room? Sam got her back - he’s got the life he’s always wanted - when Dean had first seen the postcard perfect cottage, he’d assumed this was some kind of honeymoon, official or not, so what the _hell_ -

Frowning, Dean glances around the room one more time - he takes in the books Sam’s dragged upstairs (mostly American history and some boring French novel, no surprises there), then the computer’s flickering screen. There’s a text document there, and when the word _Lucifer_ catches his eye, Dean can’t help himself: he bends down over the chair, starts reading.

_Lucifer’s barbed angelhood forced its way into Sam Winchester’s quivering man grotto, and they both sighed._

_“Am I hurting you?” the Morning Star said, now balls deep inside the hunter’s most secret crevice._

_“I like it when you hurt me,” the younger Winchester replied._

“Dean? I got you some -”

Dean looks up guiltily, and there, on the threshold, is the real Sam - not a guy with secret grottos who enjoys getting rammed by barbed dicks, that is, but his kid brother - a normal, decent man who’s trying really hard not to get into a fight. Fuck, he’s even carrying a fluffy towel. Before Dean can do anything to make the situation better - _is_ there a way to make this better? - Sam looks past him, sees the computer’s on, and his face darkens.

“What the _fuck_ ,” he snaps, stepping forward, forcing the towel in Dean’s hands before shutting the laptop down with a loud click. “Are you _spying_ on me?”

“I’m,” Dean starts, finds there isn’t a good way to finish that sentence. “Shouldn’t it be _archangelhood_?”

For a split second, Sam doesn’t understand what Dean is even saying - his eyes flicker from the closed laptop to Dean and back again - but as soon as he gets it, as soon as he realizes what Dean must have read, then he’s just _done_ \- he suddenly looks like he’s gonna walk right past Dean, get out of the house and drive the fuck away and not even bother - 

“Sam,” Dean tries, and Sam’s face darkens, something really ugly surfacing around his eyes and mouth.

“That’s _not_ mine,” he says, in a flat, dangerous voice.

Dean takes half a step back.

“I never said -” _Fuck_. He doesn’t know where that stupid joke came from. Truth is, he’s feeling sick, nauseated, and there’s that familiar thing unfurling deep inside his belly - a sudden, piercing worry, ‘cause Sam - does Sam _miss_ Lucifer? Is that what this is? Seriously, what the _fuck_? “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

Sam, who’s now busy disconnecting the laptop and stuffing it into a drawer, almost sneers in disgust.

“You’re asking _me_ if I’m okay? You? I’ve been trying to reach you for fucking _weeks_ , Dean, and all this time you’ve been, what? Trying to overdose on shitty pills? Fucking around with -”

“Hey, that’s unfair - I’m not the one writing angel porn here, I’m -”

“IT’S _NOT_ MINE,” Sam shouts, slamming the drawer shut, and Dean takes another step back, trips against the bed, crashes to the floor; something that may be a sprained rib curses and creaks inside his chest.

“Yeah, okay, Samantha,” he mumbles, passing a hand over his chest.

Fuck, that _hurts_.

But Sam’s not done. 

Of course he isn’t.

“ _Okay_? You almost _died_ , Dean. You’re obviously not - not _coping_ , you -”

“I _told_ you - I’m _fine_ ,” Dean snaps. He sits up, tries to fold the towel he’s still holding back into some kind of shape with quick, angry movements.

He can feel Sam’s eyes on him; heavy, fed up, completely fucking furious.

“Yeah? You’re _fine_? You’ll want this back, then.” As Dean makes some kind of effort to stand up, Sam storms to his bedside table, rummages in the drawer, and turns back to look at him, a glowy pendant dangling from his closed fist. “He left it to _you_ , remember?”

Dean stares at the thing, at the blue light flickering at him like a firefly’s.

(There’s something hurting deep inside his chest now; the kind of pain that’s much, _much_ worse than a healing rib. 

_Thank you - for everything._ )

It happens without warning - one second, he thinks he can make it, just spit out some kind of answer and be done with it, and the next he’s throwing up on his own feet, bent double and gasping for breath and fearing and hoping he’ll finally fucking _die_ , ‘cause it’s been too long already and what the _fuck_ is he supposed to - it’s a good thing Cas’ gone, right, ‘cause Dean would kill him with his bare hands if he could -

There’s a warm hand on his back, but Dean barely notices it.

\- _Castiel chose a new life as a human being_ , the woman says again, her words punching the inside of Dean’s stomach, as acrid and bitter as the bile on his tongue, and Dean knows he’d stared at her - knows he’d thought, for a full, glorious minute, that what it meant was - that Cas would come home with them, that he would - and they’d figure it out, Dean had no idea what they’d do, but they’d figure it out, and next - next he’d understood. 

Cas wasn’t coming back.

“Dean -”

(Cas isn’t coming back, not now, not ever.)

Cas had chosen to walk away, to be reborn without anything - without his Grace, without his memories, without -

(- without Dean -)

\- and he’d done it for some bullshit reason, for some -

“Dean, _breathe_.”

\- and he’s not coming back, and that’s it, and that fucking necklace, Dean can’t even _look_ at it, can’t even _touch_ it, ‘cause it’s like - it’s like a fucking jar of ashes, right, the last thing he’ll ever have of Cas, and that’s it - there’s nothing he can do about it, nada, zero, fucking nothing at all.

It’s _finished_.

It’s _over_.

Dean spits out the bitter liquid inside his mouth, presses the white towel against his face.

“‘M okay,” he mumbles. “‘M fine.”

Sam makes some kind of soothing sound above him, and Dean finally stands up, his eyes all red, his throat on fire, his head a thing of wet concrete and heavy fog.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says again, and the thing is, he does look sorry.

(He _knows_ ; he’s probably known for a long time, ‘cause he’s the brains in this operation, even if Dean keeps forgetting that when it’s convenient to do so.

And the worst thing is, Sam _gets_ it.

Jess died on him, which means Dean’s got no business acting all girly and tragic and walking around like he’s the first and only person in the entire world who’s ever lost someone he loved.)

“I can’t take that thing,” Dean says slowly, his words rasping and burning him from the inside out. “Sammy, I - I _can’t_.”

Sam looks down, the up again. He clenches his jaw.

“It’s okay,” he says, softly, in that kind of voice you use around sick people. “I can take care of it. I can keep it until - you know.”

Dean cleans his face again, looks up at his brother. They should hug, he thinks, in sluggish, disconnected thoughts. He wants to feel Sam close, to feel Sam is here and real and okay and alive. For no reason, for all the reasons, he wants to hug his kid brother (so _much_ ), and he tries to remember when’s the last time he even did that.

Probably the last time he got blind drunk; after Sam helped him out, and drove away, and came back.

Yeah.

Probably back then.

(Maybe this is what they’re supposed to do now they’re normal: become the kind of family where people hug each other even when no one’s dying.

That’d be nice.)

Sam looks ruined now, undone with some kind of strong emotion Dean is not clear-headed enough to make sense of. There’s something for Cas there, mostly grief, and the dead weight that’s Dean and Dean going MIA and Dean fucking up and Dean generally not being the brother Sam needs or deserves, but there’s also - everything else. Dean thinks about the two separate rooms again, how Sam had not volunteered any information about Eileen; and, most of all, he thinks about that disgusting thing he’s read on Sam’s computer. About Lucifer - doing _things_ to Sam, and about Sam - 

“Sammy,” he starts, trying to put all of that into words; but just then, someone knocks on the front door, and they both stand up straight, suddenly tense. “You expecting someone?”

“No.” Sam pushes his hair back, hesitates for only a second before walking to the wardrobe, fishing two guns from under a heavy blanket.

Dean cleans the vomit off his boots before accepting the second gun (too light and unfamiliar in his hand) and following Sam downstairs.

“Could be a neighbor,” Sam warns him, as whoever’s there knocks a second time; they both move their right hands slightly behind their backs so it won’t be obvious they’re armed.

The house is suddenly too small around them. Too many windows, too many doors. 

Dean looks up, checking for sigils; he finds none.

Sam opens the door.

The man standing just outside, who’s dressed in some kind of uniform and is easily as tall and broad as Sam, looks levelly at them both before focusing his attention on Sam.

“Mr Winchester,” he says, a bit stiffly. “You’re a hard man to find.”


	3. Young Kaito Brooks (Who Was Murdered In Cold Blood) Gets A Job Offer

This is the man who is now me: confused, forlorn, sitting in a quiet diner and doing nothing at all.

I don’t mean that _literally_ , of course. If you were doing nothing at all, you would die? I guess? Even someone who’s sleeping, lying down or whatever - even then your heart is beating and your lungs are working and I’m sure other things are busy busy busy. 

Right?

Your brain, definitely.

Maybe your guts? I once read somewhere your intestines are so complex and essential to who you are as a person, they're more like a second brain than a squishy swarm of bloody eels.

( _Strange_ what you remember, isn’t it?)

So I guess what I’m saying is, the man isn’t doing anything _much_. He’s just sitting there, hasn’t touched his coffee yet. He ordered a slice of pie, got very agitated when asked about flavors. I think he chose apple in the end - I wasn’t really paying attention - but he hasn’t touched that either. The free scoop of vanilla ice cream (I used to get that too, especially from older waitresses) is now melting.

Very, _very_ slowly.

“Can we fast-forward?” I ask, and the person behind the white desk sighs.

(Except she’s not a person, is she?)

“You’re watching this in real time,” she explains, slowly and a bit too loud, as if she thinks being pushed down a flight of stairs turned me into an idiot on top of killing me. “And this is not a WHS, anyway?”

“A what?” I ask, but then I realize she must mean VHS. My _God_ , are these guys still working with 1980s technology? Is that why this place looks two days away from foreclosure?

She gestures at me, vaguely, and I try - to my credit, I _really_ try - to focus on the video again.

The man picks up a spoon, puts it down again. I look away.

Like, come _on_ : it’s seriously _painful_ to watch how stiff and uncomfortable he is. Or: my _body_ is.

Seriously, my back is so straight it’s probably wondering how lesbians have sex.

I’m not losing my mind here.

I’m _not_. I’m perfectly okay.

I don’t care about dying at all.

I just mean: I’m sure I used to slouch a bit?

The normal amount?

And also: why isn’t this guy doing _anything_? Whoever he is, he’s probably getting a second chance or something? Why isn’t he _using_ it?

I stretch one arm up, tap the monitor, and the woman makes some kind of noise, a fake cough, to indicate I probably shouldn’t do that. I guess that’s better than stabbing me with that sword she has, but still - _rude_. That glass is more than two inches thick, it’s not like I’m _breaking_ it.

God, I’m so _bored_.

“What about my brother?” I ask, and she frowns.

“You know that I’m not at liberty to say.”

Yes. I knew that. This place has rules. 

It’s okay, I’m used to that.

When you’re the only mixed race kid in the entire county, you learn about rules pretty quickly.

I was supposed to be good at math, for instance.

(I wasn’t.) 

“Okay, but are you going to _do_ something? About, you know -”

“I told you, I am not -”

“Yes, yes, okay.” She glares at me. “Sorry.”

We are silent again. Something drips in the distance.

As I watch the monitor, I wonder how I can explain myself better, force her to have this conversation, but then I realize I actually don’t want to. You’d think how and why you died actually matters. It doesn’t. Not to me, not right now. I’m not sad, I’m not angry, I’m not worried about what I left behind, or what will happen next.

I’m bored.

Which is probably not normal, come to think of it, but then again, nothing is normal anymore.

(I’m _dead_.)

“You could have asked, you know,” I say, as the man in the diner is startled into hyperventilation by a passing waitress. He tries to apologize, ends up spilling coffee on her.

“Asked…?” the woman say, and she seems to come back from some other place - with her mind, that is. I wonder where that was.

“If I wanted to donate my body, or something like that.” 

It seems a stupid point to make, all things considered, but I can’t think of anything else to say and I need something to happen - _anything_ \- before I stab myself with a pencil.

Seriously: who knew Heaven would be so mind-numbingly tedious.

Maybe I should have sinned a bit more?

“Human rules don’t apply here.” The woman blinks at me in confusion, as if the idea of my body being my actual possession, and possibly something I care about, never even occurred to her.

“I know, but - it’s _my_ body? Or, it was.”

“That is incorrect.”

“I’m sorry?” I ask, and she smiles in what I’m sure she thinks is a good-natured, completely human way.

“No need to apologize, Mr Brooks.”

Oh, for God’s sake.

“I wasn’t – what do you mean, incorrect?”

I always assumed death would be the end, to be honest. And maybe I should be relieved it’s not, but it’s a bit hard to take any of this seriously.

Like - I don’t recognize that diner at all, but there’s a guy wearing scrubs at the counter, so I’m guessing it’s not far from the hospital. Has anyone even noticed I’m gone? Or, whatever, that my body’s gone? 

I’m sure the funeral home will be upset. When we were burying dad, I overheard someone offering my brother a ‘family deal’, because apparently you could tell within ten minutes of meeting me that I had the lifespan of a hamster.

What a dick.

And also: a family deal on _coffins_? My _God_. I wonder if that line ever works. If they ever have a customer who just starts gushing and sobbing in gratitude and is magically cured of his grief and sure, as long as we’re here let’s make it a party - hell, let's plan everyone’s deaths - buy all the flower wreaths and choose our favorite Bible verses - how lovely and _thank you, kind sir_ and that’s the very thing you need and want to think about as someone’s pumping embalming fluid into your father’s corpse: how everyone else you know and love will eventually die. 

“A human body is simply a web of cells and decaying matter,” the woman says, sounding like she’s reading from a leaflet. “You can’t own one any more than you can own storm clouds or the grass under your feet.”

“You _can_ own grass, though. There’s an entire industry revolving around that. I believe it’s even legal now.”

(Oh, good. And now I’m being contrary. I’m disrespecting a servant of the Almighty.

Then again, what are they going to do? Kill me?)

“As I was saying, everything that makes you who you are is in this room right now. You don’t need anything else.”

I take a deep breath at that, feel like counting my fingers and toes; checking my tattoo is still there.

I squash the childish instinct. She’s right, after all. I know that. A body is just a body.

“It’s not about _needing_ ,” I say, after a long moment. “It’s just -”

“What?”

“Your body _matters_ , you know? You get attached to it. Even when it doesn’t work all that well.”

“Your body was perfectly adequate,” she snaps, as if I offended her personally, and I shake my head.

“Listen, I appreciate the sentiment, but all those doctors seem to think my brain randomly exploding because I was carrying a glass of milk back to my room is a legit explanation for my death. I wouldn’t call that 'working well'.”

Silence, and then:

“Human beings have such peculiar categories of thought and speech.”

“No we don’t,” I answer automatically, and who’s offending who now?

“You _do_. The case at hand: your species describing its own members - its kin and blood - as abled or disabled? I never understood that. A system is disabled when it is turned off, which makes it fundamentally different from a functioning system. That doesn’t apply to life forms.”

“Words can evolve to have different meanings, you know,” I offer, and I think I should get points for not rolling my eyes.

“Be that as it may, words inform thinking. A wolf with a damaged paw doesn’t consider itself different from another wolf. It adapts to its new reality, and the pack adapts around it.”

“Yeah, but we’re not _wolves_?” I try, and I want to discuss human culture a little bit and how we don’t actually run around naked and chew on dead Bambies because I’m not exactly sure she knows about fridges and supermarkets and microwaves, but there’s no time: apparently, after a week of sullen silence this is it - this the hill she wants to die on, so I have to hurry on before she can shut me up again. “And look, I know I’m not different from anybody else, okay? Or worse, or malfunctioning, or anything. I know that.”

“Then we are in agreement.”

“I just meant – I’m okay with who I am - who I was - with the seizures, and everything, but I wish people would know those have nothing to do with my death. I wish they would try harder. I want them to understand that being disabled – or, whatever, being who I was is not an excuse for sloppy police work.”

_Fuck_. Despite everything, I hadn’t known until right now this is something that was going through my head.

I feel better now it’s out.

“You _will_ get justice.” The woman stares at me; she’s very serious now, and more than a bit scary. “The events that will restore balance and bring peace to all of you are already unfolding.”

That sounds so grand and Tolkieny that I suddenly remember everything that’s happening is actually real and I’m a tragic murder victim. I should be angry about it, or moved by this woman’s sudden and ferocious interest in avenging my death, but what I feel most of all is surprise. I’ve been badgering her for days so she’d tell me anything at all about the present or the future, and by now I know she’s not supposed to. She’s probably risking punishment here - for my wellbeing; for my peace of mind - (and what punishment do angels even get? demotion? death? a thorough plucking?) and I’m so grateful I decide to let this go.

“Thanks,” I say, and I go back to watching the monitor, more to make her happy than out of genuine curiosity.

She nods, raises her eyes to the screen as well. For a while, that’s all we do, like we’re polite and tentatively friendly strangers in an empty movie theater. Stupidly, it almost feels like a first date, and as the man on the screen passes a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it down (I know from experience that he won’t succeed, and I’m strangely vindicated by the thought my body may not be mine anymore, but I still know it better than anybody else) I’m seized by the irrational impulse to take the woman’s hand, or ask her if I should get her popcorn or a soda.

(This should be sad, by the way, but it’s the best part: that I wasn’t seeing anyone, that no one will mourn me. 

I think, a bit guiltily, about Tom and the others; wait for my worry to fade out again. 

They will be okay.)

“So, can you tell me anything about this place?” I finally blurt out. “Is this what normally happens when you die? I mean, not the body-snatching part, but - everything else? _Wait_ \- do other people get to watch their funeral instead?”

God, I would _so_ not want that.

Graveyards are _creepy_. Who the hell decided we should be sealed up in a box for eternity?

The woman glances at me, then back at the screen.

“Yes, this is what normally happens and no, they do not. We try to discourage that kind of behavior, and not many are interested, anyway. They want to move on.”

“So what, I’m a special case or something?”

It’s hard to read her face, because she’s nothing like a human. I mean, yes, she’s got a nice face and two arms and two legs and even a watch, for some reason (it’s got letters instead of numbers, though: I noticed that when she stretched her arm across the desk to shake my hand), but the more time I spend with her, the more I realize how _alien_ she is. Like, right now - it’s clear she doesn’t want to answer my question, but maybe she has to, maybe angels are like those things in maths problems who tell the truth on Mondays and Wednesday and always lie on Sundays and have no free will at all? I don’t know. I never understood any of it, anyway.

“I must obey rules too,” she offers carefully, and I don’t get why she sounds so weird all of a sudden.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

More hesitation, more weirdness. And then: 

“We no longer interfere with Earth, or make contact with its residents.”

“Okay?”

“This machine we’re currently using - I can’t turn it on for my own benefit. I’m not even sure it would work if I asked it to. The only reason it does right now is because you’re here. Because you’re human.”

“I still don’t - wait -”

Oh my _God_. She doesn’t mean -

“Your body - it now belongs to my brother.”

I stare at her. I stare at the person on the monitor. I do my best to close my mouth and breathe.

_Fuck_.

No wonder he’s so stiff and awkward and unhappy.

He’s an _angel_.

I mouth the words to myself in disbelief.

What does an angel want with my body? I suddenly feel like apologizing, like you do when someone really cool walks into your flat and you realize how shitty the place is, and how that chair you bought is actually very ugly and all the cups are dirty and the windows, why didn’t you wash the windows and seriously, what’s _wrong_ with you? Maybe I should have gone to the gym more. Or at all.

Before I can put any of that into words, the woman adds, “I needed to see the transition had been successful. For his sake.”

Transition.

I want to ask what that means; I think I already do.

“You wanted to check he was alright,” I say, and I wonder if I should pat her shoulder or hug her or anything like that.

Turns out, I’m not the only one who lost something here.

(Is this what always happens? Do angels become human when they die?)

“Yes.”

“Because you miss him.”

“That’s not an emotion I can feel.” She’s careful, and she sounds, again, like she’s reciting words she learned by heart a long time ago. 

“Right,” I say, but she doesn’t notice it’s sarcastic.

“Furthermore, it’s unwise to - we are still coming to terms with Castiel’s loss,” she says, worrying the leather strap of her watch with her left hand. “With his role in the undoing of Heaven.”

“The undoing of Heaven?”

She gestures sadly at the room, and I think about what I’ve seen so far, and the general feeling of shabbiness, desolation and poor upkeep hanging over the place like smoke.

“Wait, _one_ guy did all this?”

“He - contributed to it. He had a good reason to,” she adds, without thinking, and next she purses her lips and goes very still, as if she’s listening for someone, waiting for something unpleasant to happen.

She’s afraid, I think. There must be someone up here who doesn’t agree with what she just said - like, at all.

“So he’s a good person?” I ask, quietly, and I find this is the only thing that matters: I need someone to fix what happened to me, but, more importantly, I need someone to finish what I was trying to do, to make sure no one else gets hurt.

“He is,” she says, after a short pause. “Despite what some of my brothers think, the fact we no longer have enough manpower to keep Heaven running was an unintended consequence on his part. Castiel never wished to - well.”

“Manpower? You mean -”

“Angels, yes.”

The word is still new and bizarre enough to make me hesitate. 

_Angels_.

Until last week, I just assumed they didn't exist at all, and now I discover there aren't enough of them.

“Why doesn’t God just make new ones?”

“God is - we have a dedicated team working on that, but they reached an impasse. They can’t move forward without a shaman.”

“A shaman?”

“Yes. We have a few of them up here, but shamans tend to be - contrary. And touchy. Only one agreed to work with Doctor Badass on this project, and she quit after two days. Incompatibility of character, I think she said.”

“Doctor… _Badass_?”

The woman shrugs.

“He refuses to tell us his real name, and since he’s hacked into our records, there is nothing we can do to find out.”

Okay. 

_Okay._

Will you look at that. I’m not bored anymore.

“But now he wants to help you?”

“He - recognizes Heaven has a role to play in keeping the universe in balance. And he’s intrigued by the challenge, I expect.”

“If it helps, I’m a shaman. I think,” I say, without thinking this through, and the woman sits back in her chair. It’s a small, understated movement, but considering she’s been statue-still this entire time (has it been three days? seven? I can’t tell), it’s like she suddenly stood up and flipped the desk. I eye her nervously.

“I thought you were an artist?”

“I _guess_? Being a shaman is not exactly a real job, you know.”

It’s also part of that culture I’ve been told to forget about and suppress (or else) ever since my mother died, but I’m sure she knows that already. There was a thick book on her desk when I first walked in, but I only managed to read my name on the cover before she made it disappear into thin air. _KAITO BROOKS_ , it said, in bold white letters, and whoever wrote it also managed to get my kanji right, so that made me happy. It’s been a while since anyone’s bothered with it. 

“It’s not? But I thought -”

“Have you ever been on Earth?”

“Not for a while now.”

“Well, people want IT specialists now. MBAs. Engineers, maybe? I’m not sure. So no, ‘shaman’ is not exactly a priority on the job market.” 

“And artists are?”

“Uhm…”

Before I can decide if she’s fucking with me, she’s already backtracking.

“I apologize. That was unnecessary and unkind. I know you’re talented, and I know what you achieved.”

“It’s okay, really. I ‘achieved’ nothing. I illustrated two books because my dad was friends with this lady writer, but now she’s dead, I don’t think…” The sentence trails off into nothingness as I remember, with a stab of bitterness, that I’m dead too.

The woman tilts her head to the side, squints at me.

“There _is_ something strange about your etheric shine,” she says, slowly. “Do you mind if I -”

She reaches into the sleeve of her gray blazer, and suddenly she’s holding that big knife that was on her desk when I first walked in. On instinct, I try to get back, and the chair tips over. I manage to get to my feet instead of falling on my ass, but it’s a close thing.

_Fuck_.

Maybe boredom wasn’t so bad.

Better than torture, anyway.

“I don’t mean you any harm,” she explains, laying the knife flat on the desk between us. “A drop of your blood - that’s all that’s needed to confirm whether you’re suitable.”

Wait - is she offering me a _job_?

Do I _want_ a job?

Or, well: do I want to work with some hacker who calls himself Doctor Badass to build an army of angels?

I glance at the monitor. My other self has finally picked up a fork, and he’s now staring moodily at the mess of pie and ice cream that’s on his plate.

Hell _yes_.

“My mom was from Kushiro,” I explain, as if to myself. It’s been a long time since I thought about any of this. I walk to the desk, pass a finger on the shiny blade of the knife. “Her family was killed by a _yuki-onna_ , so I never knew much about them, but my grandfather was the most respected and sought after _ueinkarkur_ in Hokkaido.” 

I know this will work before it does. Despite what happened, despite my mother’s death and my father’s orders, despite the fact I often tried to forget about my culture and identity because it was just easier, despite my anger and my weakness and my shame about being different - despite all of that, this is my heritage. This is my _birthright_. 

I’m Kaito Brooks, and I’m a shaman.

The angel behind the desk - it’s not a desk at all, I think, as my powers sing through my veins and the room is revealed as what it really is: a wide, boundless nothingness of starry sky - the angel spreads her wings and breaks into a childish, joyful, utterly _relieved_ bout of laughter as I press the tip of my thumb into the blade and I bleed and my red, human blood shimmers and turns a deep, shiny green.

“ _Kaito-sama_ ,” she whispers in awe. “ _Irankarapte. Ahun._ ”

My mother’s language. Words I shouldn’t know, or remember.

“ _Iyayiraykere_ ,” I say, and as I blink my eyes closed, I find I’m suddenly sitting down at an old formica table; that I’m looking directly at the man wearing my body - only he doesn’t look like me now, not anymore. No: suddenly, he’s a man in his late forties, badly shaven, unhappy and windswept. He’s wearing an ordinary trench coat and standard _Hello I hate my job_ clothes, but as he looks up and frowns at me, I see the trace of something else in his clear blue eyes: fire and bright aurora light and the deep crimson of a brutal, unfinished feeling that hurts and hurts and _hurts_ , like an old wound that never healed right.

The vision lasts only for a second.

As he puts his fork down, confused and alarmed, I smile at him.

“Good luck,” I say, as I step back and open my eyes to a new world - to angels, to magic, to a red-haired man currently turning up the volume of an AC/DC song and flipping through a notebook in frustration.

I _want_ this.

I’m _ready_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
> _-sama_ is a Japanese suffix you use for people you greatly respect. It means something like 'honoured'.  
>  A _yuki-onna_ is a soul-eating spirit.  
> [ _ueinkarkur_](https://www.culturalsurvival.org/publications/cultural-survival-quarterly/ainu-shamanisma-forbidden-path-universal-knowledge) is the Ainu word for 'shaman'.  
>  _Irankarapte. Ahun._ \- "It's nice to meet you. Please come in."  
>  _Iyayiraykere._ \- "Thank you."
> 
> (I think it's canon that angels understand and speak all human languages? Or maybe it's just me. It would make sense, anyway.)
> 
> In my mind, Kaito (and now Cas) looks like actor Kenichi Matsuyama. You can find a picture of him in my tumblr chapter header.
> 
> Japanese names can often be written used different kanji; the consequence is that their meaning can change rather dramatically according to spelling. For Kaito (かいと, pronounced _kai_ as in _my_ ), these are the two I think fit the character best: 介渡 (going through and beyond) and 介登 (growing through climbing up). 
> 
> The [Ainu](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ainu_people) are an indigenous people of Japan. Sadly, their language, culture and traditions were wiped out by Japanese imperialism. Today, many Ainu don’t even know they’re Ainu and the Ainu language (which is unrelated to any other language) is classified as endangered (according to optmistic estimates, only a few dozen speakers remain). 
> 
> Disclaimer: while I’m fascinated by Japanese culture, I really don’t know that much about it. This chapter was meant to give a voice to a secondary character whose life (and death) I needed so that Dean and Cas could meet and get to know each other all over again. As I was writing it, I found myself growing attached to Kaito and now I’m even more sorry about what I put him through. But: I know in my heart he will be happy working with Ash in Heaven - _much_ happier, in fact, than he would have been had he remained stuck in the nightmare place Dean and Cas are about to discover. I take some comfort in that. I hope you do too.


	4. Casus Belli

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, we're finally getting our case, which means warning for dickish behaviour and opinions, mentions of suicide, bad Sam memories, rich people being annoying and camomile as an acceptable substitute for Earl Grey.
> 
> Title chosen as a reference to a William Sherman quote: "War is cruelty. There is no use trying to reform it. The crueler it is, the sooner it will be over."

“You are Sam Winchester?” The man looks past him, inspecting the room, and Sam knows what he’ll see: a place that looks like a sweet old lady lives here, and Dean (pale, nauseous, just this side of throwing up again). “ _The_ Sam Winchester?”

“And you are?” Sam asks flatly.

(He _knows_ , though - he’s too well-trained not to: this man is nobody. Muscle for hire. The question is, who’s he working for?

Hell, who even knows they’re alive?

His hand tightening on the gun’s grip, Sam tries, and fails, to come up with a name.)

“On a tight schedule. I’ll need you to surrender your weapons, and next I would like to vet the house - this one room should suffice - if you’re amenable to it.”

Okay. What this means is that the guy who wants to speak to them - he’s actually close by. He must be. Sam’s eyes flicker to the darkening landscape bracketed by the open door. The path leading up to the house is empty. Maybe there’s someone waiting in the parked car (Sam can’t see it from here, but there’s lights shining against the mailbox)? Or maybe he and Dean should be planning themselves a way out; maybe this guy is just a scout, and there’s an entire team hiding in the forest around them.

Sam is itching to let Dean do the talking, because this is normally what happens. He’s much more comfortable acting as backup, because doing two things at once - sure, he can do it if he has to, but Dean’s much better at this - posturing, pushing the right buttons, creating some kind of connection with whomever it is they’re facing. 

(And how _does_ he do it? How does _anyone_ do it?

Sam used to think he’d be like Dean one day - that talking to people and reading them, that was just a question of training and experience. 

Instead - well.)

But Dean - Sam doesn’t need to turn around to know Dean’s in no shape to do any of that.

Plus, it’s him they want to talk about.

(The _Sam Winchester_ \- that’s something Sam really doesn’t want to think about, because the only reason anyone would know about him is Lucifer. 

The way this guy said his name - Sam remembers hunters using pretty much the same tone - curious; unwillingly impressed; somewhat scared - as they claimed he was the Antichrist.

The _Sam Winchester._

 _The kid with demon blood_.

 _The boy king_.)

“What I’m _amenable_ to is giving you a second chance not to be shot in the face,” Sam says, raising his gun. “So I’ll ask you again: who the _fuck_ are you and what the _fuck_ do you want from me?”

As the man reaches inside his heavy winter coat, Sam hears Dean take a step closer and cock his gun.

“Sure you wanna do that?” he snarls, but there’s something really wrong with his voice, with how he’s stretching the words; and next, the soft noise of fabric sliding to the floor.

“ _Impressive_ ,” the man at the door drawls, and Sam doesn’t need to turn around to know what’s happened.

And, sure, he was more than ready to clock Dean barely one hour ago, but this guy - this guy doesn’t get to do that. He doesn’t get to make fun of Dean, and he sure as _hell_ doesn’t get to track them down and fucking _threaten_ them.

“Hey - you’re not talking to _him_. You’re talking to _me_.” 

There’s a good chance there’s only two of them: whoever this guy is and whoever his boss his. And even if there’s more - hell, they’ve taken more. They could shoot their way out right now and get the fuck out of here - it’s not like Sam even _wants_ to stay, not now he knows who’d actually rented this house (and _fuck_ that, fuck _everything_ \- he’s accepted a long time ago his life’s not normal and not even his fucking own, but whatever - there are limits to what he’s willing to take.)

One shot to the neck, and this problem goes away.

But: this man’s human, and that’s not what they do.

And Eileen - she likes it here.

Or, that’s what she’d said the one time she’s talked to him this week.

(Sam doesn’t want to tell her why he doesn’t want to stay here. It’s bad enough Dean’s found that shit on his laptop, there’s no way - no _fucking_ way - Eileen can know about it.)

The man rolls his eyes, opens his left hand in a conciliatory gesture.

“I was told to give you something. And I’m not carrying. Let’s all calm down for a minute, okay?”

Dean curses, hitches his pants up, and Sam lowers his gun a fraction.

“Here,” the man says, and this is what he had in his pocket - a fancy keychain with a purple skull on one side and a number on the other.

Sam stares at it. 

And he stares some more.

 _Fuck_.

“You working for Dev?” he asks, and the man’s smile widens.

“ _Congressman_ Fairchild,” he stresses, “is in need of your assistance. I told him, of course, that in my professional opinion -”

“Yeah, nobody cares about what you think.” Sam glances at the garden path again, thinks there’s no way Dev is actually here. Not if he’s made it. Washington people - they’re bound to have a security detail, right? Unless there _is_ a security detail, and they’re about to get arrested. “Go tell your boss that whatever he needs, he can come up here and tell us himself.”

With that, he slams the door in the man’s face, turns to Dean.

“You okay?” he asks, quietly.

“I - yeah.”

They both listen as the man turns away from the door, his steps creaking on the stairs; and then he’s gone.

“You look like shit. Get yourself a glass of water and sit down.” 

“Yes mom,” Dean says, rolling his eyes; but it’s not funny, of course, not even a little, and there’s something guilty about the way Dean shuffles to the couch and collapses on it, his gun on his right thigh.

(They’re not _thinking_ about Mom. They’re not _talking_ about Mom.

What would be the point?

Dead is dead.

Except when it comes to _them_ , that is, because it seems to Sam it’s a game by this point - that someone up high is restarting the level again and again and pushing stuff in their way just to watch them fail.)

Sam shoves his own gun in the back of his jeans, wonders if they’ll need a doctor at all. Dave had told him Dean would be fine, but Dean doesn’t _look_ fine. And until Dean starts talking about Cas - until he decides to stick around instead of going away and hiding and pretending the last few months never happened - yeah, Sam figures his brother’s about one week away from the next overdose.

As he watches Dean stretch back and close his eyes, he thinks about the first time he’d found Dean passed out in a motel parking lot - he’d been thirteen back then, and barely strong enough to help Dean inside, but the fear and horror lighting up his brain in blacks and grays - those are exactly the same.

 _Please_ , he thinks, not even knowing who he’s praying to. _Please_.

“So, who’s _Dev_?” Dean asks without opening his eyes, and Sam walks to the kitchen, grabs him a can of Coke.

“A guy I knew in California,” he says, but of course, that’s not enough.

“Yeah? Old boyfriend?”

Sam almost throws the can at him, goes to check the window.

“Old _nothing_ ,” he answers. “He was a dick then, I’m sure he’s an even bigger dick now.”

Dean makes an interested sound, takes a swig of soda.

“Keep talking, lover boy.”

God, it’s been so _long_ \- there are moments Sam isn’t sure it was real. He remembers it well enough - the classes, the parties, the flat he shared with Jess - but it’s like those are memories of someone else’s life. Because the truth is, he never belonged there. People like Devon Fairchild - that’s who the place was built for. 

(Not Sam Winchester, who’d grown up in a car with a drunk.

And so when Dev had offered him a key to the Sherman room - Sam had hated himself, but he’d taken it.)

“Nothing to say. Was a few years above me, came from big Boston money. His dad was in Congress; looks like Dev’s taken his place now.”

Dean drinks again.

“Did he know about you?”

Sam doesn’t need to ask what that means. He wants to say no, but considering what just happened -

“We weren’t _friends_ , Dean. He thought I was good, offered me a seat in this shitty secret club, but -”

“Secret club? We talkin' _Dead Poets Society_ or _Eyes Wide Shut_?”

He’s looking a bit better, Sam thinks, but that’s just because he’s sitting down. What Dean really needs is the complete package - a hot shower, a good meal, and a place to rest. Someone to look after him.

And Sam - he’s tried to be that person for Dean, but he’s always fucked it up.

Truth is, he’s not sure he’s capable of looking after anyone, and that’s mostly why he’s trying not to think about the baby - not that Eileen’s decided yet, but they’re getting close to the point when not making a decision _is_ making a decision, and Sam doesn’t dare to hope for either scenario.

There are days he deeply, desperately _wants_ to meet this kid; also days he’s wondered if he actually wants Eileen to have the baby so she’ll stay (so he’ll never be alone again). 

He fears that says bad things about him.

(He’s probably right.)

“I don’t know. I went up to that room only once - they wanted me to beat up another kid to prove I had what it took, so I walked out.”

“Yeah, you would,” Dean says, but his amused snort doesn’t quite hide the warmth in his voice.

“If he vetted me before asking me to join, it’s possible he found something, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter, anyway. There’s nothing left to hunt.”

“Says you.”

“Says _everybody_ ,” Sam snaps as he looks at the man now approaching the front door - he’s got a scarf around half his face, but he’s definitely not Dev. Another minion, then, and that’s not bad news at all.

Sam opens the door before the man can knock, moves to one side to let him pass.

“Thank you, how _lovely_ ,” the man says; he’s carrying two briefcases for some reason (a standard leather bag and a black attaché), and puts them both next to the one armchair before taking off his coat and scarf. “I _hate_ winter, don’t you?”

“Uhm -”

“You wouldn’t have tea, by any chance? I’m _absolutely_ freezing.”

“Yeah, we don’t -” Dean starts, but the man keeps talking - he’s either blissfully unaware of the _get the fuck out_ vibe both Sam and Dean are directing at him, or he just doesn’t care.

“And I’m _sorry_ about Connor, by the way. I’m always telling him he doesn’t _need_ to be so rude - and, frankly, _paranoid_ \- vetting you, what a _silly_ idea! You have Mr Fairchild’s complete confidence, Mr Winchester, Sam - may I call you Sam? I wouldn’t be here otherwise, this is a very delicate matter, you understand. I’m sorry - tea?”

Sam looks down at the guy, who’s a full head shorter than he is and reminds him, more than anything, of a friendly hedgehog - he’s got short, spiky hair going gray at the temples, and the kind of vest you see in bad period dramas (a deep red velvet monstrosity with shiny brass buttons). His short, pointed nose is almost vibrating as he turns on himself, takes in the room around him.

“ _Wonderful_ watercolors,” he says, with the good-natured enthusiasm of an old person praising a child they don’t know all that well. “Did you paint them? I have some experience myself - well, I _dabble_ , that is the sad truth - I’m nothing but an amateur, and could never hope to achieve anything as good as -”

“Yeah, we don’t care about that,” Dean says, and it’s like the end of a spell, or a curse - Sam finds he suddenly wakes up, remembers actual reality and how it’s not about harmless farm animals and Victorian novels - because this guy tracked them down, wants something from them, is very likely a threat. “Spill, okay?”

The man looks at Dean like he’s an adorable toddler.

“You must be Dean. I heard so _much_ about you, it's so _lovely_ to finally meet you.”

“What?”

“Now, I’m afraid that before we continue, you’ll both have to sign a non-disclosure agreement - standard procedure, you understand, nothing personal -”

“Wait a _second_ -”

“- Mr Fairchild thinks most highly of you, as I’m sure you know. Remembers you very fondly, and when this - situation - arose, knew you were just the ticket.” 

“You on your own?” Sam asks, as the man sits down, opens the clasp of his leather briefcase. “Just you and the driver?”

“Yes, quite! Mr Fairchild wanted to come himself, but with everything that’s going on,” he gestures vaguely, “he really couldn’t clear his schedule, you understand.”

“Who the _fuck_ are you?” Dean asks, as the man pushes a densely written paper into his hands.

“Oh. Oh, I’m _terribly_ sorry. I forgot to introduce myself. I do that sometimes, that’s what happens with age - only so much you can remember, after all - I’m Nicholas Beasley, of _Beasley, Belmont and Myles_. I consult for Mr Fairchild - knew his father well, it was such a shame that he passed -” He shakes his head sadly, then picks up a second copy of the contract, hands it to Sam. “But, as the say: _mors expectat_.”

“I’m not sure,” Sam starts, but Dean beats him to it. “We’re not signing a damn thing until you tell us what the _fuck_ is going on.”

“Please, understand -”

“Look, you came to _us_. Either tell us what the fuck is it you want or get out.” 

For the first time, Beasley looks uncertain.

“This is _highly_ irregular,” he says in the end. He looks at Dean, still pale and bad-tempered in his ridiculous clothes, and next at Sam. “As I said, this is a tremendously _sensitive_ matter.”

“We’re used to that. You can trust us.” Sam chooses to ignore the expression on Dean’s face. It’s almost four, which means Eileen will likely be home in less than two hours. The sooner this guy’s gone, the better. “Please, just - I’ll put on some water for your tea, and why don’t you tell us what do you need from us?”

There is a long moment of silence as Sam fills the old fashioned kettle and turns the stove on, but as he turns back and leans against the door, Beasley looks up from the folder he’s holding, and Sam understands they’ve won.

The cheerful, distracted attitude was just an act; whatever is going on, the man is terrified.

“You know about Brooks House?” he asks, in a low voice, and he doesn’t seem surprised when Sam shakes his head. “It’s a private institution in the Cascades region. It provides shelter to vulnerable individuals. Not in any _official_ capacity, you understand, but - over the years, it has had the privilege of welcoming dozens of at-risk youth - underperforming students, young felons, runaways. It’s given them the time to - recenter. Find themselves.”

“Sounds lovely,” Dean drawls, and Sam has to agree with him.

Shutting up a bunch of teenagers in the middle of nowhere - he’s heard about places like that, knows he and Dean were damn lucky they never ended up in one of them.

Beasley opens his mouth to answer, closes it again.

“Unfortunately, it’s been home to certain - unpleasant events of late. Poor Mr Brooks was very fond of Mr Fairchild, and Mr Fairchild still keeps a close eye on Brooks House - as a favor, you understand.”

Yeah, sure. What Sam’s understanding right now is that this place is a money laundering scheme - a foundation some rich bastard set up to save tax money. Build some kind of house, round up a few kids to make it believable - they probably hired two relatives to act as teachers and five security guards and called it a day.

But maybe he’s just being cynical.

Maybe Devon Fairchild gave up his grade A douchebag streak and is now a pillar of the community.

“Unpleasant events?” he asks, to cover up his sudden snort of disbelief.

Beasley worries the folder he’s holding. Looks up at him, then at Dean.

“I - as I said, this is _strictly_ confidential. Truly need-to-know. And we are not sure - it’s possible these events are not connected to one another in any way. _Likely_ , even.”

“Get on with it.”

Predictably, Dean’s bypassed distaste and is fast heading for raw fury. He always takes it personal when kids are involved - and Sam understands that, of course - he feels the same - he _does_ \- but also - they need to keep a clear head on this one. The woman had said all the monsters are dead, and she had no reason to lie.

Hell, that’s why Cas went away in the first place, right? Because he and Dean wouldn’t hunt anymore?

“About two months ago, one of the boys residing at Brooks House died under suspicious circumstances,” Beasley says, finally opening the folder and placing a photograph and an autopsy report on the table. “Mateo Hernandez. Seventeen.”

 _Fuck_.

Sam looks at the photograph - a round-faced boy, with something of a child about him - then at Dean, who’s already going through the report, his face stony.

“This says suicide,” he comments, in a flat, dangerous voice. “Post-mortem matches. So what’s suspicious about it?”

“The medical examiner would have preferred to involve the police. See, the thing is - unfortunately, this was not the first suicide at Brooks House. Which is to be expected, of course, considering these young men are, as I said, quite _troubled_ -”

“Of course,” Dean agrees, and Sam wonders if Beasley understands how close he is to be punched in the face.

“- but this new doctor, she’s rather - _passionate_ about her job, and she’s refusing to close the case until every detail can be fully examined. And the family, of course - what a _burden_ for them, I’m sure they would be - well - they could start their grieving process if the body was released into their care. But, as I said - this doctor is new, and probably keen to make a name for herself. Very unfortunate. Very ugly business.”

It’s almost fully dark by now. Sam finds himself staring at his own reflection in the window - a featureless blob where his face should be, long hair falling below his chin - as his mind starts considering options without his input or consent. 

Apparent suicide. Could be a ghost, or a demon. A tulpa, maybe, though they’re so rare that’s unlikely.

Or it could be nothing.

In fact, that’s the best explanation: _nothing_. There are no more ghosts, after all. No more demons. And suicide - suicide happens.

Hell, Sam’s been close enough to that gate once or twice. He should know.

 _Do you know what happens when you try to trick the Devil?_ Lucifer says, and his voice is still vivid inside Sam’s mind, so loud and clear and honey-sweet there are nights Sam isn’t sure Lucifer’s actually dead; nights he’s got to turn his light on and press down on the old scar on his palm until it hurts and talk and shout and yell at Lucifer’s laughing presence inside his own mind.

 _I’m not tricking you. This is_ my _body._ My _decision._

 _You still don’t_ get _it, do you? You belong to_ me _. You were made for_ me _. You die when_ I _say so - and not one second before that._

“What else?” Dean growls, picking up the photograph, putting it down again.

“About a week after Mr Hernandez’ death, Mr Brooks underwent a life-threatening incident.”

“Who, the old man?” Sam asks.

“No - his son. The youngest one. Kaito,” Beasley answers, and they all jump when the kettle starts whistling.

Sam had forgotten all about it.

“I’m quite fond of bergamot,” Beasley calls, as Dean says, “A life-threatening incident?”

“Mr Brooks has a - _condition_.” Sam fishes a clean mug out of the tiny washing machine, rummages in the drawer for Earl Grey. “And we believe that on the night in question, he simply - suffered from a seizure, lost consciousness, and tripped. There is no need to suspect the involvement of a third party.”

Fuck, they’re out. Camomile it is, then.

“Is he dead?” 

Sam hands Beasley the steaming cup, sits on the couch next to Dean. Dean’s shoes are stained with vomit, because this is their life, and God’s got the same great timing He always had - not to mention a twisted sense of humor.

“Good Heavens, _no_. He hit his head, and it looked a bit touch-and-go for a while - but then he woke up, thank goodness. Full recovery, they say. In fact, I believe he’s already on his way home. Not fond of hospitals, young Kaito, you understand.”

“And -”

“He doesn’t seem to remember anything about that night, no. But, as I said, there is nothing to remember. A stroke of bad luck, that’s all. This is exactly what his father always feared, you know - the poor man.” Beasley picks up his tea, blows on it. “Suggested quite a number of fine institutions over the years, places where the boy could be looked after, but Kaito - he’s something of a free spirit, bless him.”

“Yeah, bless him. I still don’t know what you want from us,” Dean says, and there’s no mistaking his rudeness for anything else now. Sam considers the idea of patching things up, immediately dismisses it: he wants this guy out of the house just as badly as Dean does. Out of his damn _life_. He’s got enough problems as it is. “All I’m seeing is a suicide and an accident. That’s not what our line of work is about.”

There: it’s out in the open. Or, as out in the open as this hedgehog lawyer will allow it to be. Sam could be wrong, but Beasley doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d be comfortable talking about vamps - or even accepting their existence in the first place.

“Yes, I’m - uh - _aware_ of your particular set of skills. And let me say, I have nothing but respect for that,” Beasley say, hurriedly and unconvincingly. “For some cases, I’m guessing that’s exactly what’s needed, isn’t it? To put minds at ease, and whatnot.”

Dean takes a sip of his Coke, says nothing.

“And I fear - I fear this is the service we find ourselves requiring right now. See, last week Brooks House’s head psychiatrist was murdered.”

“You could have led with that, but okay.”

“It was - _gruesome_ , I think you could call it,” Beasley says, ignoring Dean’s comment. “Here - see for yourselves.”

He sets down his tea, opens the folder a second time, and takes his time to place four black and white photographs on the table.

Sam’s breath catches; Dean goes very still.

“As you can see, the body was staged to suggest - a Satanic ritual. These symbols on the walls - it’s most likely gibberish, but still - _very_ unsettling. As for the cause of death - the medical examiner was unable to determine anything beyond ‘exsanguination’. I am no expert myself, of course, but it seems to me these bites, here and here - they were simulated to hide the true nature of the wounds.”

“Simulated?” Dean echoes. 

He picks up the closest photograph, then makes a peculiar gesture, as if to hide it from Sam.

Well: too fucking _late_.

“Yes. No wild animal is big enough to leave that kind of marks - unless we’re seriously considering that a tiger somehow got inside the school, killed doctor Landon and disappeared into thin air. The poor, _poor_ man. I knew him well. _Terrible_ loss.”

Sam has to stand up; he’s not seeing clearly. He thinks he might be sick.

A fucking _Hellhound_.

In _fucking_ Washington state.

That’s less than four hundred miles from here.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, already punching Eileen’s number in his burner.

It’s suddenly infuriating, _frustrating_ beyond belief that he can’t call her; that he can’t make sure, right fucking _now_ , that she’s okay.

 _Delta_ , he texts, urgently; and, after only a few seconds: _DELTA_.

He’s vaguely aware of Dean's and Beasley’s voices droning in from the other room, and he also knows, on some level, that he’s being stupid - that it’s likely this is not a Hellhound at all, and even if it is - _even if it is_ \- it’s got no reason to go after Eileen.

None.

_You’re listed as next of kin, Mr Inman. Do you think it would be possible -_

The phone buzzes in his hands, and Sam almost drops it.

_I’m okay. Driving home. ETA 25._

Sam reads the message three times, and next - he wants to say it’s a rational decision, a good, solid strategic option, but who the fuck is he kidding?

“I need to go,” he says, walking back into the living room. “Something came up. Sorry.”

Dean doesn’t even seem surprised.

“Keep your phone on,” he says, as Sam runs upstairs to get his shotgun.

 _Fuck_.

He can’t _think_. He can’t - it was _supposed_ to be over.

They promised it’d be fucking _over_.

“Sammy.”

Dean’s waiting for him by the front door. He’s barely standing up, but he looks downright dangerous.

“I can come with you,” he says, firmly, and Sam shakes his head.

“She’s twenty minutes out. She’s fine. I just - get him the fuck out of here, okay?” he adds, lowering his voice. “I’ll be back soon.”

Dean nods, but as Sam puts his hand on the door handle, Dean steps closer, hugs him tight, and Sam melts into it - suddenly realizes part of him was sure he’d never see Dean again, because after Mom - after Cas - Dean had just _vanished_ , and with Eileen back - fuck, nothing’s ever _free_ , is it?, fucking _nothing_ , and Sam’s hot with shame now, _hates_ himself for thinking, even for a second, that Dean was dead; that his brother’s life could be an acceptable price to pay for - for fucking _anything_.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot, okay?” Dean says, his voice muffled in the thick wool of Sam’s sweater. “Bitch.”

“I know what I’m doing, you jerk,” Sam says; his hands fist briefly in Dean’s bright pink hoodie, and then he walks away, the cold and darkness closing in around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Mors expectat_ \- Death awaits (implied: us all).
> 
> Apparently [the US military has code names for threats](https://www.daytondailynews.com/news/local-military/what-are-the-military-different-threat-levels/KzpU3zNLA6vy4DUYHYK3xH/)? Delta is the highest, and it indicates there is a strong possibility of an imminent attack.


	5. (Spell)Bound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I hope you guys are still interested in the story - I can promise you I am, very much! :)

_wtf r u_  
_been waiting 4ever_

_sry_  
_st helen's_  
_had a 911_

[Call from ‘Sabrina’. Call denied.]

_u okay?_

_sí can’t talk_

_y_  
_what’s wrong_

_sleeping_

_ur sleeping_

_yeah sure_

_haha_  
_zope_

_:)_

_rlly tho what r u doing_

Fidelia looks up form the phone. There’s no way she can explain what she’s doing. She was supposed to wait for her sister at Rosie’s so she could drive her to boxe practice, and instead here she is, in a white hospital room, with a guy she’s never seen in her life and who isn’t even awake.

 _take the car_ , she types next. Consuelo’s powers are fading and she complains about it, oh, let me think, a _gazillion_ times a day, but starting their crappy Honda without keys - she used to do that all the time, and it's not exactly hard even without magic, anyway. 

_Do you have any idea what my life is like?_ she’d screamed at Fidelia that night, and the moment still sits heavy between them - a dark, slimy pond neither of them is ready to cross.

There’s small dots on the screen now, Consuelo typing some witty reply, or whining about how she doesn’t like to drive, or whatever else - but the guy in the bed suddenly stirs, and Fidelia pockets the phone and moves closer to him.

It’s not like she’s lied to anyone, she thinks, for the hundredth time. She’d been the person closest to the guy - to _K. Brooks_ , as his plastic wristband says - so when he’d started acting crazy, she’d been the first to help him. Anyone would have done the same. And when the paramedics had assumed the two of them were friends - yeah, okay. That was when she should have said something and gone back to her chocolate milkshake.

But he’d looked so miserable and scared and all alone in that ambulance, and she -

The phone chirps. 

She ignores it.

Consuelo can find her own damn way to her stupid class. She’s seventeen, she’s not a baby, and okay, so she’s not a witch anymore - but _Dios mío_ , who _cares_? Why does it _matter_?

It’s not like Fidelia ever had any powers, and she’s done alright so far. 

(Not hurt, not dead, two semesters left in her ASL interpretation degree, four nights a week behind the counter at Domino’s.

A good life, whatever Consuelo says.)

And now, her very own Sleeping Beauty. 

Too bad she’s not into guys, or this could have made for a good story to tell her future kids.

( _Ay mija, tu papá, sabes, tu papá_ \- on the day we met, he was so _hermoso - farfullaba y farfullaba_ about ghosts and _demonios_ and then - remember this, _mi cielito_?, then he tripped on his feet and almost cracked his head open on a table and threw up on me before passing out. _El amor es un milagro_.)

Wait, wasn’t there a movie about that? Fidelia gets up, pours some water in the blue plastic cup by the bed. Yes, she thinks. There _was_ a movie, but they didn’t end up together. 

So there.

Her phone chirps again.

Fidelia looks down at the man on the bed, brushes his hair out of his face.

Apparently, he’d sneaked out. That was what the nurse had said, while also yelling at Fidelia for meeting him in the first place, because _I get you two are friends but it’s rest he needs right now, okay?_ and _Honestly_.

 _I didn’t know he was sick_ , she’d said, for some reason, and the nurse had mellowed a bit.

_He’s been in a coma for two weeks, Miss Abascal. We almost lost him._

_Then how_ , Fidelia had started, but the nurse had been paged away.

 _Can you sit with him? Call me the second he wakes up_ , she’d said, already hurrying to the other end of the corridor. 

So, well - apparently, that’s what she’s doing here - sitting with someone she doesn’t know at all, looking over him - and there’s no way she can explain it to Consuelo. 

(Some guy threw up on her, and she went with him to the hospital, rode in the ambulance and kept holding his hand even when he passed out, and now she’s here, in a room that’s probably bigger than their entire house, all white luxury and abstract paintings and a single card on the small table by the window.)

Fidelia presses her hand against the guy’s forehead for a second, as if checking his temperature (everything seems normal), before walking to the card, picking it up. There’s a bird on the front carrying an ‘It’s a boy!’ banner; someone’s crossed that out, written a short sentence on back: _Dear Kaito, get well soon. Your loving brother, Atticus._

As she puts the card back, she realizes that the small book next to it she’d taken for a courtesy Bible is actually a personal diary with a small leather clasp on the front. 

Knowing perfectly well she shouldn’t do this, she picks it up and opens it.

There’s no text, but most of the pages are covered with quick sketches in black ink: faces, dogs, an incredibly detailed tree whose branches widen over two separate pages, the quick line of a mountain range.

 _Órale_ , the guy is good.

“This is amazing,” she says, in a deliberately normal voice, because this is what she’s supposed to do: keep the guy company, hope he wakes up. “You’re, like, _really_ talented.”

Kaito doesn’t answer. He’s still sleeping in that weird way sick people have, flat on his back, without moving an inch. 

Fidelia turns around so she can keep an eye on him, and as she flips through the pages, two photographs almost slip out. She catches them just in time, smiles as she realizes what she’s looking at.

The first one was taken abroad. There’s a raw, scary landscape in the background, a ridge that seems to go on and on, blend into the blue white horizon. The two human figures - a woman and a young boy - almost disappear against it, their faces happy and red with cold, the child’s hands deep into his parka’s pockets. The colors are a bit faded, and one corner’s got a sticky spot on the back, like the photograph was recently taken from an album. Fidelia turns it around to check for a date, but all she finds are scribbles in a foreign alphabet. Chinese, maybe? Not that it matters: this is clearly a small Kaito with his mom. She thinks of something to say, but everything sounds awkward and stalkery; still smiling, she folds that first picture back into the notebook and examines the second one.

This one is much more recent - can’t be more than one year or two - and, yeah, awake or asleep, the guy is movie hot. He’s reaching for the camera, a grin on his face, his bare chest a marvel of tattoos - there’s a huge canvas behind him, an unfinished painting of some kind, and his arms are splattered with black and gold paint up to his elbows. Two people are sitting on the floor behind him, their faces hidden from view as they pore over one of those big arty books; like Kaito, they’re both softened and sharpened by the early morning light - whatever this room is, it must have a lot of windows.

Fidelia stares at the eerie, compelling image for another second before tucking the picture next to the other one and carrying the notebook back to where Kaito’s still sleeping.

“So, you’re an artist,” she says, and she sounds idiotic, too chirpy, like this is a first date or whatever the hell, and not - not the creepy thing it actually is.

God, she should leave.

But what if Kaito wakes up and no one’s here?

(He was in a coma all that time? That means he almost _died_?

But what was he doing at Rosie’s then? In telenovelas, coma patients wake up with a dramatic sigh and sit up straight and immediately point to their would-be killers or something, but Fidelia’s got enough experience with real life to know that’s bullshit. Maria’s _tío_ had gone through that, and hhe’d almost died. It’d been weeks before he could speak again, let alone walk. And okay, so he’d been sixty-something, but still - nobody wakes up in a some intensive care room and just goes for waffles.)

Suddenly, the white door behind her opens. Fidelia freezes, the notebook still in her right hand, an apology already on her lips - but it’s just Consuelo, her dark hair braided in what she thinks is tough and boxer-like style, her gym bag dangling from her shoulder.

“What are you doing here?”

“What are _you_ doing here?” her sister says, clicking her tongue in exasperation; when Fidelia gestures at Kaito, she seems unimpressed. “The car wouldn’t start, and there’s no _way_ I’m walking all the way over there.”

“It wouldn’t? But did you try -”

“Lita, I tried _everything_.” Consuelo walks to the window, drops her bag on the floor and starts rummaging through the gift bag on the small table.

Okay. So her powers are not just fading; they’re gone. 

That's -

“Maybe we could stop by the Herbarium on the way back,” Fidelia offers carefully. “It’s not far from here. Sally may know something.”

“Yeah. That’s why I went there.”

Consuelo’s found a box of expensive chocolates. Fidelia closes the distance between them, snatches it from her hands.

“Those are his,” she points out. 

“He doesn’t _want_ them. Look at him.”

“That’s not - whatever, what did she say?”

There’s a moment of silence. Consuelo drops the gift bag in the trash, her eyes darting between the armchair, the bed, and the beautiful view outside the window as if everything’s personally offended her.

“That it’s the same for everyone. Which we already knew.”

“We didn’t know that,” Fidelia says, and that's God'shonest truth. 

Consuelo’s the only _bruja nata_ they know of. Those other people who haunt the Herbarium - the women in flowing skirts, the overpierced men, the guy who’s got his teeth filed into fangs - they’re not like her sister. They don’t have any powers. They’re all - who even knows - candle sellers, _tramposos_ , Devil worshippers. A few had made demon deals, but that, of course, hadn’t ended well.

(Who’d make a deal with a _demon_? Like, _really_? You’d have to be an idiot, or truly desperate.)

But Sally - Sally knows about _other_ people. Different people. Women like Consuelo, shamans, _mestizos_ \- the real deal. And if all of them are now fully human again - Fidelia doesn’t know what to say, but then again, there’s nothing she can say. Nothing either of them can do.

This is bigger than them.

Consuelo’s powers aren’t coming back. 

“Does she know what happened?” she asks, and finds she’s actually curious about it.

She’s never been a big fan of magic, because what it meant was that Consuelo always had her way - she was the youngest, the special one, her _abuela_ ’s favorite, and if Fidelia tried to complain about the swarms of crickets in her bed or how the bathroom always stank of sulphur after Consuelo was done with her ‘experiments’, she’d be told, over and over again, that her _hermanita_ needed to practice.

(That one time, when Fidelia was fifteen and Consuelo was nine, Fidelia had run to their _abuela_ with a dress Consuelo had ruined. But, of course, the old woman had simply praised the quality of the goo Consuelo had summoned out of thin air and Fidelia had gone to school with a shirt she’d borrowed from her _tía_ , which had been horrid and about three sizes too big.

_Muy talentosa._

Ha. As if.)

Consuelo drops down in the armchair, starts chewing on her left braid.

“She said anything this big, that’s usually the Winchesters,” she spits out. “But who knows.”

“The _Winchesters_. Right. Because they’re, like, _real_ people.”

“Are too.”

“Are _not_.”

“You’re just -”

Fidelia shushes her sister, turns around. 

The man in the bed is stirring weakly.

“Dean?” he calls, and Fidelia walks over to the bed, drops the chocolates on the chair, takes his hand.

“I’m here,” she says, suddenly overwhelmed.

What is she _thinking_ , fighting with Consuelo about driving and boxe and her stupid powers? They’re lucky to be healthy, both of them - to be alive and unhurt and blessed, so blessed with _life_. And this guy - _Dios mío_ , this guy is really sick, and Fidelia’s an idiot for even being here and playing house with him. She should have told the nurse the truth - that she doesn’t know him, that she was trying to be kind. That he scared the shit out of her with his disjointed talk of ghosts and secret messages, that her shirt is still stained with vomit despite her attempts at cleaning it, that she’s scared and upset and all she wants is to go home. She doesn’t have a shift tonight - she needs to study, and bad. Her finals are close enough that she’s allowed to start panicking, and with Consuelo freaking out and their _tía_ working overtime, she’s basically had to take over the shopping, the cooking and the endless, exhausting, _aburridísimo_ cleaning tasks on top of everything else.

Kaito blinks his eyes open, and Fidelia is reminded of how this is why she first noticed him back at Rosie’s: he’s got this amazing eyes, bright blue and full of light, completely unexpected on his face, like red-hot chili in a chocolate dessert. As he looks at her, Fidelia forces herself to still an irrational bout of jealousy - why is it that Consuelo got to have magic powers and this Kaito Brooks person is both very talented and hot as fuck, and meanwhile she’s stuck in a normal, boring life - a good enough body and a good enough brain and a good enough soul, nothing that would make a stranger stop and marvel at her for any reason? The world is just not fair.

The feeling comes and goes, like a slow, muddy wave, and all that’s left in its wake is a familiar and deep-cutting shame. 

_Ah, Fidelita. El que es buen músico_ , her _abuela_ would say, cupping Fidelia’s face with her bony hand; and Fidelia would look up at her and finish the saying for her, trying and trying to believe in what she was saying: _con una cuerda toca_.

To a talented musician, one string is enough.

( _Eres suficiente, mija. Eres perfecta._ )

And look at her sister now. Look at this poor guy, lost and scared and alone in his hospital room.

“I’m here,” Fidelia says, closing her hand tighter around Kaito’s. “Do you need anything? Would you like me to call Dean?”

As Kaito stares at her, his expression still a bit unfocused, she wonders who Dean is. 

A second brother, maybe? A friend? A boyfriend? According to the nurse, Kaito’s been here for weeks now, and yet the room is almost spotless - aside from the notebook, the card and the box of chocolates it’s like no one’s been here at all.

(Hasn’t his _mom_ visited? His _friends_?)

“Water,” Kaito mumbles; and, as Fidelia reaches for the cup: “Who’s Dean?”

“How should we know? You were the one talking about him.”

Fidelia glares at her sister, who’s dragged herself to the bed and is now sitting on the white sheets without even asking, as if she’s got any right to do so.

Kaito’s fingers, unsteady around the cup Fidelia’s helping him hold, tremble so violently he almost spills water on himself. 

“I have amnesia,” he says, apologetically; he passes the back of his hand over his mouth as they both stare at him.

“You _do_?”

“Yes.”

“What do you remember?”

“ _Ei, cállate_? None of your business, maybe?”

“No, it’s okay.” Kaito sort of smiles at Consuelo, who’s playing with her braids again. “I remember waking up in the hospital. And the diner.”

“You had coffee and a slice of apple pie,” Fidelia says, trying to be useful, and Kaito frowns.

“Apple pie,” he says, slowly. “Yes, I - yes. You’re right.”

“But, like, you know who you _are_?”

“Consuelo -”

“I’m Kaito Brooks. I think,” he says. As he looks down at the hospital bracelet on his wrist, then up again, Fidelia suddenly feels like there’s something very wrong with him - some detail that’s bugging her about his appearance, something -

But she doesn’t know him.

She’s imagining things.

“You’re an artist,” she says, picking up the notebook and handing it to him. “You’re very good.”

“Am I?”

He sounds bewildered, and Fidelia has to wonder what that’s like - to have an entire life behind you you know nothing about, stuff and places and people you love and yet can’t remember. To be forced to rebuild your entire self because everything you were - that’s just gone. She glances at her sister, who’s got an unguarded, desolate something around her eyes and mouth, and reaches over to squeeze her hand where it rests on the covers.

Consuelo looks away, her eyes welling up.

They both wait quietly as Kaito thumbs through the pages, but it’s clear he doesn’t recognize anything he’s seeing. He smiles at the photographs, but it’s the gentle, empty smile of a bystander who’s got no idea what’s going on. 

“And your brother came by,” Fidelia adds, pointing at the card.

Kaito goes very still for a second.

“I don’t remember him,” he finally says, snapping the notebook shut. 

There’s a note of - almost alarm in his voice, but before Fidelia can ask about that, he looks up at her.

“And what about - I’m sorry - are we friends?”

Fidelia wishes she shouldn’t have to tell him the truth; that she could just say, _Of course we’re friends_. That she could assure him that she’ll stay here and chat with him until he feels better. 

(That someone, somewhere, gives a damn about him.)

“I - we met at the diner, remember?”

Kaito goes even quieter. He frowns, tilts his head slightly to the side as he tries to remember; and Fidelia can see the exact moment it all comes back to him - there’s relief there, but also fear.

“I’m sorry about that,” he says quietly. “About scaring you. I thought I’d seen - never mind.”

“You said there was a ghost,” Fidelia says, biting her lip. “Some other version of yourself.”

“Ghosts are not a thing. Not anymore,” Consuelo snaps, and Fidelia tightens her hand in warning.

“What do you mean, not _anymore_?”

“Nothing. She’s a _tonta_. A _mocosa_.” Fidelia glares at her sister.

Their family sacrificed everything - everything - to hide the fact Consuelo had inherited her _abuela_ ’s gift. They moved and fled and hid and left everything behind to avoid demons and monsters and hunters - their _abuelo_ died to protect his _bruja_ wife - Fidelia will not have that spoiled because Consuelo is in the mood to feel sorry for herself.

“I’m just saying, it’s sad that this world’s got no magic in it,” Consuelo says, sullenly.

She snatches her hand back, checks her nails. For all her talk of boxing, she’s still got the same perfect manicure Fidelia’s been envying her for years.

“Consuelo -”

“The world _does_ have magic in it,” Kaito says, sitting up straighter, and they both stare at him.

Is he -

“Love,” he adds. “And friendship. And believing in something greater than yourself.”

Consuelo opens her mouth, closes it.

“Sure,” she says, in something that’s almost a polite voice. “There’s all that.”

“It _matters_ ,” Kaito stresses, staring at her. “It _does_ matter. It _must_. Otherwise, what’s the - otherwise -”

He’s agitated now, almost distressed, and Fidelia remembers she’d promised she’d call a nurse as soon as he woke up.

“You’re right,” she says, and she can’t help it: this guy older than she is, and yet there’s something so lost and childlike about him that she reaches up, smooths his hair down. “And I know you don’t remember it, but I’m sure you’ve got friends. I’m sure you are loved. And maybe it’ll take you a while to get up to speed on that, but they haven’t forgotten you, okay? They _care_.”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re not - who you used to be,” Consuelo adds. She stands up, seems embarrassed by her own bluntness. “Sometimes shit happens, and you get hurt, or whatever, but even if you feel different, even if you lost your memories or - I don’t know - you’re still _you_ , right? It’s not like you’re suddenly someone else. That’s not - it doesn't work like that.”

There’s a moment of silence; they’re shaken out of it by a sudden ray of light - the sun hitting a building just so, and a mirror-sharp window on the other side of the street reflecting a distant star right into their eyes.

“I’m still me,” Kaito repeats, obediently; his clear blue eyes are almost incandescent in the golden light. “I am loved.”

“That’s - yeah. Hey, can I have one of those truffle things?”

Fidelia sighs, but Kaito blinks, picks up the box and hands it over. 

Later, as they’re leaving, she sees him fish it out of the trash, and she wishes, again, that she could stay. Instead, her sister is talking about some new recipe she wants to try and cook, and Fidelia hums, thinks this will be nice - to spread her notes all over the kitchen table the way she used to do in high school, and maybe that empty space where _abuela_ should have been won’t hurt so much tonight, or even at all.

(Because tonight, it won’t be an empty space: _Consuelo_ will be there, chopping up jícamas and badgering her to taste this thing and that, her dark braids getting in the way, and as she breathes in the fresh, non-hospital air, Fidelia wonders if her sister will pin them up under a _paliacate_ like _abuela_ used to do; she smiles at the thought, and Consuelo smiles back at her.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I just wanted to say - I know it's probably frustrating for you guys to miss out on Cas' inner voice - it's annoying for me too, because a) I really want to get into what he's thinking and b) coming up with OCs is not the easiest thing - but I feel like there's a Valid Narrative Reason for doing this, so now I'm committed. I'm hoping we can finally get Cas' POV in chapter 7, though. Fingers crossed!
> 
> Spanish glossary (a warning: my knowledge of Spanish is _very_ superficial, and I know exactly nothing about regional differences; I apologize in advance for any mistakes, and if you see something ridiculously wrong, please let me know? thanks!)
> 
> sí - yes  
> zope - stupid  
> Dios mío - my God  
> tío - uncle  
> ay mija, tu papá, sabes, tu papá - sweetheart, you dad, you know  
> hermoso - handsome  
> farfullaba - mumbled  
> demonios - demons  
> mi cielito - my love (literally: _my little sky_ )  
> el amor es un milagro - love is a miracle  
> órale - holy shit  
> bruja nata - born witch  
> mestizo - half-blood  
> abuela - grandmother  
> hermanita - little sister  
> tía - aunt  
> muy talentuosa - very talented  
> aburridísimo - very boring  
> eres suficiente - you're enough  
> eres perfecta - you're perfect  
> calláte - shut up  
> tonta, mocosa - idiot  
> paliacate - scarf  
> tramposo - conman


	6. Telling Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: drug use, Dean's usual suicidal mood.

Dean waits until the car’s tail lights disappear down the hill. He watches the two red eyes blinking back at him - there’s something jeering and nasty about them - for only a minute longer before turning away from the window and walking back to the table.

So the lawyer’s finally gone, and hurray for that, but all the shit the man brought with him is still fucking here: a folder full of dead kids, black and white pics of a supernatural kill, a couple of addresses, and a suitcase full of money. 

_Jesus._

_Get him the fuck out of here_ , Sam had told him, and _technically_ , Dean’s done that.

Technically, he’s done just _fine_. 

Sam never told him not to take the case, after all.

Not in so many words.

And okay, they usually don’t take money, but they’re not hunters anymore, are they? There’s no family business and no job and no code and -

(No Cas.)

\- everything’s just fucking _gone_ , so if a rich bastard wants to give them twenty-thousand fucking dollars to check out a fucking murder, whatever - Dean will take it, and Sam can thank him later.

(Sam doesn’t _need_ money, though, and Dean squashes the thought down, ‘cause it’s bad enough he’s still thinking about Sam and Eileen not sharing a bed and none of this is his fucking _business_ , right?, none, that part of his life’s _done_ , Sam’s out and he’s made it and it’s not - Dean shouldn’t worry anymore, and he shouldn’t - but _goddammit_ , look at this place, okay? Look at it, and how can Sam _afford_ it? Dean’s not exactly clear on where they are, but he knows his brother, and unless Sam’s completed his Stanford education on the DL - fuck, Sam’s on minimum fucking wage, just like he would be if he’d bothered to find work at all. And washing dishes and painting walls and fixing shit - none of that will pay rent for a place like this. No fucking _way_.

Fuck, if after all they’ve been through Sam’s decided to - to join the mob, or anything like that, Dean will kill him. He will literally, physically _kill_ Sam for that, God help him.)

Thoughts and feelings splash inside his head, heavy and syrupy and nauseating, but Dean clings to them, he’s happy and grateful for all that shit - his worry for Sam, his grief over Cas, his fury at how unsafe and fucked up the world is, his guilt that he failed to make it better - hell, he’s even okay with the headache and the dizziness and the traces of some drug still dancing and shouting inside his blood, heading straight for his heart, because what they do is mask and dilute the warm, warmer, Hellfire hot _excitement_ running under his skin, snaking around his lungs, fucking _blinding_ him with loud sounds and louder colors. 

Because this is a _hunt_ now, a legit one, and there’s a sense of savage happiness there, a shameful, horrifying exhilaration and _fuck_ , Dean’s a bastard and a loser, but this - this he can fucking _do_ \- there's a plan unfolding in his mind, perfect and glorious and detailed, point A to point fucking B, because this is who he is and this is what he does and he doesn't need a good brain and a healthy heart, not for this – he doesn't need to torture himself over right and wrong, that's the beauty of it – when you're at war – Dean steps around the table, stumbles his way across the room – when you're at war, what matters is what gets you out alive, nothing else - right and wrong don't come into it.

Brain on, heart off.

Fucking _finally._

_Sure, that sounds like you_ , Sam drawls inside his brain, with that same trace of condescending pity that's been there ever since he turned eleven and realized he was smarter than Dean. _No right or wrong, okay._

“It'll _work_ , okay? Shut up,” Dean snaps, deafening that voice right out of his head; and even that, that anger, those words now bouncing back at him from the empty room, are too much. 

He stops and grips the door frame for a second, fighting against the nausea.

Fucking _Sammy_ \- Dean can’t fucking believe his brother found him, that he -

('Cause it would have gone away, all of it. Cas leaving, and mom dying, and everything else too, down to those red-hot flashes of jealousy at what Sam now has: a home, a partner, a normal fucking life.

It would have been over, just like that.)

\- but yeah, of course Dean couldn’t fucking _die_. That’s not his choice to make, never was, because it’s never over, is it?, it’s _never_ over, and people need them, they need _him_ , and what _he_ wants - what he wants for _himself_ , that never - it doesn’t -

( _I love you_ , he’d said, and he’d been sure it would work. 

As if anything’s ever that easy.)

Dean glances down at the scar on his right palm. Sam must have seen it, so the fact he’s not said anything - _Jesus_ \- that means Sam’s waiting for THE RIGHT MOMENT, all fucking capitals, means he’s _planning_ something, some way of telling Dean that nothing has changed, that it doesn’t matter.

Or, worse: that he _understands_.

Even if Sam doesn’t.

Even if Sam never understood a single goddamn thing.

( _You will never, ever hear me say that you - the real you - is anything but good._

Right.

As if.)

Dean closes his hand into a fist, swallows back the hint of bile inside his mouth.

_You have a job, son. Fucking_ focus.

One deep breath; and two. By the third one, all the bad things are fading from Dean’s mind - Eileen dead and torn apart on a steel table, Cas smiling at him in that sad way he had, Sam on his knees, tear tracks on his cheeks, and so much love in his eyes Dean can’t bear it - those things slowly turn into that dark weight Dean can swallow down and forget about (for now, and that’s enough), and other things take their place, things like weapons and maps and lore and how much gas is left in Baby’s tank, anyway?

But he’ll worry about the car later, ‘cause first - first let’s go with what we fucking know.

Hellhounds don't do their own thing.

That's not what they're about, or how they function.

Jesus, Crowley had gone on and on about it, his hand ruffling the fur of an animal Dean could just barely perceive – a dog as big as a horse, now snoring and slobbering over the cheap motel sheets, and fuck, hadn't he told Crowley, a thousand fucking times, to leave his room alone? 

No – Hellhounds are loyal, Hellhounds are _Sweet little duckies, aren't you, Juliet?_ , Hellhounds are just like dogs when you train them right, and what that means is no _way_ whatever killed the good doctor had acted on its own initiative. 

If it is a Hellhound, then it's been ordered there, Dean's as sure of it as he's ever been of anything.

And that's reason one why this can't be done in a hurry – they can't dress up as school inspectors or lost hikers or whatever, spend a night there and go home the next morning. They need to figure out who would sic a Hellhound on the guy, and why.

(This is not a demon's deal gone wrong, Dean can feel it in his gut. Look at the lack of markers – no sudden wealth, no beautiful wife, no fame and no starring in a Clint Eastwood movie – but mainly what's tugging at his stomach, threatening to spill it inside out again, is the dead kids. There's something fishy about that place, and the Hellhound is the least of their problems right now.)

No, what they need here is time – and bait.

(Mateo Hernandez’ face, unhappy and a bit blurred, flashes inside his head, fades out.)

Dean's been trying not to think about that for two hours now, but no fucking luck.

Those _kids_ -

(He finally lets go of the door frame, forces himself to move upstairs – he needs his duffel, needs -)

Those kids – something’s going on there, something really _bad_. 

They need _bait_ , Dean thinks again, and he and Sam are way too old for it, but he won't – he fucking _won't_ – put one of Claire's friends on the line – he's thought, on and off, of Jesse, wished he could have unleashed the fucking Antichrist on whatever bullshit is going on in that place – but Lucifer is dead again, and Jesse is a normal kid again, and that's all there is to it.

He finally makes it to Sam's bedroom, kneels on the carpeted floor, still stained with vomit, and rips his duffel open.

Sam knows his hiding places, the fucking smartass, which means all the secret pockets – and even that pair of rolled-up socks Dean never wears – are empty. He curses under his breath, gets his gun, clicks it open – and there it is, one last blue white pill and exactly what he fucking needs right now. 

The ritual's not all that complicated, but if he throws up halfway through he might turn himself into a frog by mistake, and that's something he doesn't need right now.

( _Sam would be happier with a frog than_ – a voice starts, but Dean ignores it.)

There's a chance this will damage his heart even more, but that's definitely not a problem.

Dean's not planning to use his heart for very long, if at all.

And it’s not like anybody would miss him.

Not like he’s got anything left to do.

No, Sam's all set here, and Cas – Dean leans against the bed, reaching over to snatch a book off Sam's bedside table – _Return to Cold Mountain_ – before placing the pill on the cover and crushing it with the butt of his gun, the soft sound of the pill turning into powder as loud as a gunshot in the empty house.

There. All done, and Sam can't stop him, and he can keep his wrong opinions to his own damn self.

“Cheers,” Dean says, to the empty room, before snorting the powder up; and the change is immediate, magical, beyond fan-fucking-tastic: his angry stomach shuts up and disappears inside his belly, the bitter taste in his mouth becomes a distant memory, and his mind clears, opens wide like a window on a beautiful summer day. 

Dean could laugh from the relief of it; it takes him a full minute, maybe more, before he remembers the cream-colored ceiling above him is just a ceiling - that’s he’s on the clock, has a job to do before Sam gets back and tries to stop him.

Tossing the book back on the bed, Dean stands up – has the sudden, idiotic urge to do a few squats, going for a run, just because he can – turns back to his duffel again.

His thoughts drift to Crowley - hell, he could have used the guy’s help on this one - and then, inevitably, to Cas - only instead of the familiar stab of grief and regret, a wave of blinding _rage_ suddenly crashes down on him - Dean welcomes it, revels in it - anything’s better than the empty despair he’s been drowning in for weeks, months - _anything_ \- and he’s _furious_ now, furious at Cas for leaving him behind, furious at himself for being so goddamn easy to leave - as he wipes the back of his hand across his nose, he wants to yell, to shout, to tear everything down, ‘cause Cas is a baby right now, isn’t he, a goddamn _baby_ with a crib and a dummy and he doesn’t fucking _care_ \- he doesn’t fucking _remember_ \- he gets a chance to do it all over, and Dean -

Dean turns, punches an angry, fist-shaped mark into Sam’s door so he can stop himself from wishing something bad upon a child.

“Whatever,” he mutters, his knuckles red with blood. “ _Fuck_ you, Cas.”

(This house, though - this goddamn _house_ \- just like that, he’s back to stage fucking four, because as he moves to the bathroom, fills a glass with cold water, Dean forgets Sam and Eileen are not even sharing a room; he’s jealous and unhappy and can just about see what would have happened if Cas had stayed - they could have found a place like this, no problem, they should have been the ones to - _fuck_ \- Dean gets water all over himself, curses - there are moving pictures crowding through his brain, making it hard to see - stuff he’s imagined over and over and over again - himself flipping pancakes in some kitchen and stepping back into Cas’ hug, and if Cas was here, yeah, they could go for a walk in the snow, Cas would like that, the sappy idiot, and Cas’ face, right, Cas’ face would look _breathtaking_ in the cold, the hard line of his nose going a bit pink, his eyes clear and colorless in the bright sun, and Dean - _we would have made it work_ \- he doesn’t know how, or what Sam would have said, and he doesn’t know, he doesn’t let himself wonder, if Cas would have been happy with it, because Cas -

Because Cas _left_.) 

His mouth a thin line of anger, Dean comes back to the bedroom, and the visible signs of his brother - the books, the chargers, the clothes abandoned into balls of fabric here and there - Dean suddenly hopes Sam will understand, ‘cause he’s seen Dean’s scar, hasn’t he, so he must - he must realize what Cas leaving did to him, he must understand why is it that Dean can’t stay.

But Sam would try to make him stay anyway.

_You’re all I have left_ , he’d said, the last time he’d tried to save Dean’s sorry ass from something really bad, but that - that’s no longer true.

He’s got Eileen now, and Dean can - he -

He’s free.

He’s _done_.

_Look after your brother_ , those were his father’s orders, and now Sam is all grown-up and normal and living inside a snowglobe with a beautiful, smart woman, and Dean -

_Hell is now over_ , Cas had said; and so is magic. Dean knows: the woman told him.

But what he’s discovered over the last few months is that there’s an exception; a loophole he’ll now crawl his way into, no matter how much it hurts.

Because demonic magic is gone, and natural magic is gone, and all the monsters are dead, but Enochian magic - Enochian magic still _works_.

It does, however, require a sacrifice, and as Dean readies everything - the powders, the crystals, the glass of water - he must be quick, but he can’t quite stop his hands from trembling, the cold sweat on the back of his neck.

He’s known about the spell for weeks now, and he’s been right on the edge of using it a few times - to bring Cas back, to bring Mom back, to grant Sam a long, safe, boring-ass life - but he hates, he truly _hates_ , not knowing what the price is. He hates not being in control, he hates giving himself up to a power he doesn’t understand and wants nothing to do with.

But if he’s going to help those kids up at Brooks House, this is the only option he’s got left.

_This is idiotic and dangerous_ , Sam says in the back of his mind, as Dean pours the first powder into the water and watches it turn a clear, glittering blue.

And then, in a quieter, angrier voice: _It's what Dad would have done._

Dean picks up the second vial.

“It isn’t,” he says, in the empty room. “It _fucking_ isn’t.”

Because Dad had used them as bait before, sure, but Dean - Dean isn’t sending a kid out there to die. 

He’s choosing to go himself, and that _matters_.

That makes all the difference.

The second powder turns the water pitch black.

“If someone’s out there,” Dean snaps, annoyed at himself, angry at his own fear, “I’ll need to _fight_ , okay? I’ll need my legs and my arms and my goddamn _eyes_ , so just - take whatever the fuck you want, but give me a fucking _chance_ , okay? I earned that.”

His hand closes around the biggest crystal, a piece of jagged quartz, and his eyes flicker down to the scar on his right palm before he tightens his fingers around the stone until his skin breaks.

“I fucking _earned_ that,” he says again, raising his hand over the glass. “You sons of bitches fucking _owe_ me.”

# ***

“What’s going on?” Eileen asks, for the third time, but Sam keeps his eyes on the road.

He’d insisted she leave her car behind so they could drive back together - and that, of course, had led to a fight. Not that it takes a lot these days (not that it ever does), and she’s not wrong, but he - he can’t.

He’s never told her the full truth of that other woman wearing her face; the woman Sam met first (the woman he fell in love with).

He didn’t even tell her she’d died - Eileen guessed it, of course, but the how and why - she doesn’t need to know that.

They’re trying to start a normal life, and maybe it’s unfair, but Sam doesn’t want her to carry his nightmares as well as her own.

There is a moment of tense silence as Eileen waits for him to answer; and finally she snaps, “Stop the car. Stop the car right _now_ ,” and there’s something of John in her voice - something of the military commander she used to be in the other world - that’s how Dean speaks when he wants something done, and despite himself, despite everything, Sam still responds to it, finds himself slowing down and parking on the side of the deserted road, his jaw clenching as he thinks of what could hide in the darkness around them.

“Look, I -” he starts, turning so she can see his mouth, but she talks over him.

“I’m leaving,” she says, loudly and clearly, but the determination in her eyes, that sliver of coldness, even antipathy, she’s displayed during many of their conversations, softens and fades as she takes in the horror on his face. “Sam,” she adds, more gently, “you must have known it would come to this.”

“But I - I _like_ you,” he blurts out, and that’s his lamest attempt of talking to a woman since the third grade.

There’s a moment of silence, but before Sam can think of a better way to explain his feelings, Eileen talks again.

“You are a good man. And if you want to, then I will let you see the child, but -”

“You’re keeping it?” Sam asks, and there’s something very loud happening inside his chest now - something loud enough to silence his fear of the Hellhound, even his shame and despair at messing this up so very badly.

Eileen smiles, puts a hand on his knee in comfort.

“Yes. I’m keeping it. It wasn’t the best time or anything, but I decided - I’m choosing hope.”

“We could raise her together,” Sam says at once, putting a hand over hers. “ _Please_.”

“Her?”

“Or him. Just - don’t go.”

Eileen looks out at the dark landscape, then back at him.

“I don’t even know who you are,” she says quietly, and this is a conversation they had so many times Sam knows exactly what’s coming next.

“I can’t tell you about - about _her_ ,” he says. “Please don’t ask me that.”

“Sam -”

“And Dean - Dean’s at the house, I told you. Whatever you want to know about him, you can ask him yourself.”

He doesn’t add Dean’s talking to a lawyer, working on a case; that Dean was suicidal, almost dead, when Sam found him two days ago. He doesn’t know why, it’s just - things are so bad already, and Sam’s got so many dark memories and dark days, and if she knew the full truth of it - well, she would go, wouldn’t she? And no one could blame her for that.

(Sam wouldn’t blame her for that.

There was a time he thought a woman would be lucky to have him. He was young then, young and arrogant and full of dreams; but when he’d met Jess, when he’d gotten to know her parents, when their lives had started to blend into each other in a soft, yet uneasy domesticity, he’d realized what his father and brother must have known all along.

That there is no escaping this life, no making it better, no sharing it with anyone.

And now -) 

“I don’t - I want to know where the money comes from. Tell me that, at least.”

This is another argument they’ve been dancing around for weeks now, and Sam isn’t surprised she’d bring it up. He’s just - he should have come up with an answer by now, any kind of lie, but - he thinks, for a second, about making some vague promise, insisting they’ll talk later, once they’re back home and safe.

But if there’s a Hellhound after them, no place is safe.

And also - _also_ \- this is _it_ \- he doesn’t know a lot about relationships, but he’s good at reading people, and he knows this is the last moment he’s got, the last chance to change her mind. After tonight, she’s done with him, and now it’s real Sam understands how much he was hoping this would work out, how much he actually cares for this woman - not because she’s carrying his child, but because of who she is - brave and giving and whip-smart - he knows her much better than she knows him, because unlike him, she’s opened up, talked about herself and her life over the last few months, and Sam doesn’t want to lose her.

And that’s why he can’t tell her the truth.

“I told you, it doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does,” she says, taking her hand back. She reaches into her backpack, fishes out a thick white envelope. “This was in the mailbox when I left for work.”

Sam looks down at it, sees the logo, and does his best not to react.

“Yeah?”

Another moment of silence; another chance she’s giving him to come clean before she has to force him into honesty.

Sam keeps his eyes on her, says nothing. 

“They said yes, in case you’re wondering,” she finally says, with a frown, and Sam smiles.

“Wow, I - that’s _great_!”

“No, it’s _not_. Sam, what’s _wrong_ with you?”

“I just thought -”

“I know we talked about this, but you - you enrolled me into a graduate program without telling me. You forged my documents, you forged my name, and you know perfectly well we don’t have enough money for this. It’s M.I.T. - the tuition fee alone is more than fifty thousand dollars a year.”

“We can afford that,” he says, but he knows it’s not enough. He’s disgusted with himself for lying to her, and he suddenly thinks about Dean - a sixteen-year-old Dean insisting they had plenty of money left and _Finish your homework, Samantha_.

He pushes the thought away.

“Sam - I know you mean well, but this doesn’t work for me. I don’t care how you make your money, but I do care if that becomes _our_ money. What you’re offering to do - you know what it means to me, but still -”

In that other world, Eileen had been a bioengineer before Lucifer had started to turn cows inside out and the Apocalypse had crashed down upon them. She’d lived in Detroit, the city of the Green Revolution, and she’d been part of the team that had developed a new technology to make solar cells more efficient. It had changed _everything_. In this world, Detroit was in ruins and Professor Zhang had died in a car accident when he was a boy, but in the other one he’d been Eileen’s mentor, and he’d refused to patent his revolutionary new tech - Eileen had told him about entire cities all over the world switching to solar, about the difference it made. In fact, for a full, glorious second it had seemed _enough_ \- they’d already booked their plane to Oslo for the Nobel Prize ceremony when a tsunami had devastated California and demons had started to eat people.

They’d been in Detroit when she’d told him that, sitting in a van Sam had stolen a week before and looking at the empty lot where Eileen’s lab had been, and Sam - he badly wants to give that entire life back to her. Because she deserves it, and because that technology in this world - that could save their daughter’s life. Or their son’s. It could solve the energy crisis, make the coal mines and fracking sites close down for good.

(It could make her smile again.)

“I can’t tell you. I just can’t. It’s nothing illegal,” he says now, and he knows it’s not enough. “I swear.”

She’s quiet for a moment.

“I know people left you,” she finally says, “when they learned what you are. I can read it on your face.”

“I -”

“And I’ve met hunters. On the other side, I mean. I can’t understand what that was like, to live their entire lives like they did, but I listened to them, okay? And I can listen to you.” She takes his hand again. “Whatever you had to do, Sam, whatever was done to you - I won’t push you away. I promise.”

_You’re pushing me away right now_ , he thinks, childishly, and it must show on his face, because she squeezes his hand.

“Sam, I’m not leaving because I don’t like you, or because I don’t trust you. I’m leaving because I don’t _know_ you, and you won’t let me in.”

“Eileen -”

“Give me a chance to make this work. _Please_. For the child. For me.”

The other Eileen had understood, Sam thinks, and it’s low and disloyal and Eileen herself - the Eileen he knew - would hate him for it, but there you go. That other woman, she was raised by a hunter, so she’d known it’s not that simple, and that Sam’s got a lot to lose either way here. That if he doesn’t tell her about the money, then he’ll miss out on a life that’s so _close_ , he can almost _taste_ it (a house, a dog, a nursery painted in flowers and puppies), but if he _tells_ her - then he’s got to admit everything not only to her, but to _himself_ as well (to _Dean_ ). And Sam doesn't - Mom’s gone and Cas’ gone, and that - they were the ones who truly _believed_ he could make it out, that underneath it all, he’s a good person.

This woman, she doesn’t know him, and Dean - Dean _wants_ to believe that, but _does_ he? He’s seen Sam addicted to demon blood, and he knows everything - _almost_ everything - that passed between Sam and Lucifer, so he can’t really - he doesn’t -

No, what Sam needs is more time to think; to figure out a way to win, to become that person Eileen’s clearly expecting him to be, but there's no more time.

He’s almost forty. 

He should know this stuff by now. What to say, when to say it. How to make people like you, and how to like them. He used to think he’d figure it out growing up, that he’d be like Dean someday, honest and open and ready to love, but on the day he’d finally thrown out the only phone that still had Amelia’s number on it, he’d been forced to admit this would never come easy to him. He'd tried talking to Cas about it for some stupid reason, turned around to look at Cas in the backseat and _Do you think_ , he’d said, _do you think you can have a relationship, a normal one, when you don’t feel -_

The sentence had gone nowhere.

Different from everyone else? 

( _You were made for_ me _, Sam, and you will come to love me._ )

Sam had been too miserable to listen to Cas’ answer, so they’d both looked at Dean, now distorted behind the glass of the gas station, but so clearly at ease, laughing and flirting with the girl at the cash register, normal and human in a way Sam would never be.

“Let’s go back to the house,” he says in the end, because there’s nothing else he can say. “Let’s get indoors, and I’ll tell you everything.”

Eileen doesn’t answer, so Sam starts the car again. It’s a painful, silent drive - Sam’s got his fog lights on, he’s checking for movement, waiting for something to leave prints in the snow, jump on the car, and Eileen looks like she wants to tell him to slow down, and is trying not to. 

_I trust you_ , she’d said, and Sam - God, he really doesn’t deserve that.

He thinks about the filth on his computer, pages and pages he can’t bring himself to erase, and about Dean, hopes Dean is okay and that creepy guy is gone and they can just - they could have _dinner_ , he thinks, wildly, and he’s not even sure what time is it, but they could have dinner like a normal family, they could -

But as he turns into the driveway, he sees someone by the Impala.

Someone too short to be Dean, too short to be that asshole lawyer, or the security guy, and who else would even be out there? Who the fuck -

“Stay in the car,” he says, as he parks, and Eileen makes some kind of sound - alarm? anger? - when he gets his gun out of the back of his jeans.

The guy’s clearly seen him coming, but it’s like he doesn’t care at all. He’s opened the trunk now, is bent over it as if checking inside the weapons' compartment. As Sam steps closer, he straightens up again, his face half-lit by the lights of Sam’s car.

And Sam stares.

_What - that's impossible._

“You found her? She’s okay?” Dean says, as if nothing’s going on; as if he’s not sixteen again, drowning in a jacket that doesn’t fit him at all.

“She’s fine,” Sam says (stupid; slow). “Are you - _what_ -”

“I’m heading up North. Wanna scope the place out so we know what we’re dealing with.” He lifts up the duffel at his feet, already wet with snow, places it inside the trunk.

“Dean -”

“We need to take that thing out, Sammy,” Dean says, shielding his eyes so he can look at Sam’s car, check Eileen is really there. “One of us’ got to get inside that place.”

There’s so much wrong here, Sam doesn’t know where to start. 

“But you need to rest. To sleep. You’re _sick_ ,” he tries, and Dean grins.

“Nah, I’m fine.”

“You’re _not_ fine,” Sam argues, feeling twelve himself. “Dean, you’re -”

“Look, I’m going, so if you’ve got something useful to say, now’s kind of the -”

“If this is about Cas -” Sam blurts out at that, but then he stops, wonders how he’s supposed to talk about something he knows has no permission to mention.

“Who?” Dean asks, with a distracted frown. “Ah, the angel? I got the grace right here, could come in useful.”

He pats the pocket of his duffel bag, closes the trunk, and gets into the driver’s seat.

Sam stares at him.

“What?”

“So this is not about Cas?”

Dean shakes his head, and Sam knows him so well, it's clear he's not faking. No, Dean is distracted, his mind already on this trip he's planning, on the case, and Sam needs to keep him here, figure out what's wrong, figure out -

“But - Eileen’s pregnant.” Dean freezes, and they stare at each other for a long moment before Sam adds, more quietly, “I’m going to be a dad.”

It’s weird to tell something like that to his sixteen-year-old brother, but Sam hasn't slept in two days - he's exhausted and done and moving in a world that's no longer something he even recognizes, so that's the first thing that pops into his mind; and this is also, he realizes, the first time the thought is in actual words, and out of his mouth. All this time, he never connected the obvious dots, the cause and consequences: that he would have a baby, but the baby would have _him_ , as well. That he’d have a kid, but he’d also be a father. Those two things had somehow lived as separate entities inside his brain, as if the only life that would be altered by Eileen’s unexpected pregnancy was that of the unnamed baby now growing inside her belly.

But, of course, that’s not how it works, and Sam is suddenly overwhelmed, dead sure he was an idiot, and he can’t do this, that he’ll hurt and resent this child as much as John hurt and resented him, because those are his genes, and he’s a liar and a murderer and not fit - not in any way - to take care of a baby. 

(Not _worthy_.)

Hell, he’s not even sure he knows how to love anyone anymore.

Not really. Not truly.

Lucifer’s burned that out of him, and the only one he couldn’t erase from his heart was Dean - Dean who’s been the first person Sam had learned to love, Dean who’s forgiven him one too many times, Dean who’s held him and consoled him and taught him and would be, Sam’s sure of it, ten times the father Sam could ever be.

Dean who's still staring up at him, and just like that, the last piece of the baby puzzle quietly falls into place and Sam feels lighter than he has in years.

He’s not alone.

He will learn to love Eileen.

He will learn to love the baby.

He can do it.

Because Dean will be there to show him how.

“I -” Dean looks away then, his face both familiar and unfamiliar to Sam, too open, too soft, too goddamn _young_ , and Sam sees, very clearly, a flash of raw hurt deep in his brother’s eyes.

“Dean -” he tries, already hurrying forward, but Dean sets his jaw as he adjusts the seat of the Impala, checking he can reach the pedals.

“Congratulations,” he snaps, coldly, his voice not quite cracking.

And then he slams the car door, and then he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp, when I thought to myself 'slow burn' one year and a half ago, I was sure visualizing things to move a _lot_ quicker than this. I'm sorry the characters seem to have a different idea, I'll try to get them to fall in line asap.
> 
> Also: **I'm taking part in NaNoWriMo and attempting to write the first draft of my Greek Mythology AU novel (!!!)** , which means the next update of this story will probably be in December. I apologize for the wait! If you want to know more about the posting schedule or my novel or anything, [please come and visit me on tumblr!](http://awed-frog.tumblr.com/)
> 
> And as always: thanks for reading <3


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